


A Better World

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Multi, Postpartum Depression, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-03 09:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 44,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6606166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate Finlay is precise, logical and rational, much like his son Shaun. Together, they plan to save humanity no matter what, redefining mankind for the good of all.</p><p>But betrayal breeds enemies and there's another Survivor...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for misogyny, and mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism, drug addiction and postpartum depression. AU where there are two Sole Survivors in the form of Nate and Sparrow Finlay and the former chose to work with the Institute while the latter was left in the Vault.

“It’s me, Father. I’m Shaun.”

            Tall and lean in his white lab coat with a sprinkling of chestnut strands in his silver hair, the scientist was still the spitting image of Nate Finlay but for the thin arch of his eyebrows and a finer cast to his features from Sparrow. It had been difficult to process a decade passing since Shaun had been torn from his arms, let alone six of them, yet the soldier knew even before the measured, educated baritone had spoken who this man was. The child-synth had been a lure, a clever one, and he had to silently congratulate his son for such tactical thinking.

            Nate let his actions speak for him, grabbing a startled Shaun into an embrace that was mindful of his frailty. There was the shadow of sickness in his green-hazel eyes and a gauntness to his features that informed the pre-War survivor that his son was sick, probably dying given his age. After a moment, Shaun returned the hug and everything was right in the world again.

            “I was pleased to discover that Kellogg hadn’t managed to kill you,” Shaun finally said after the hug ended. “My plans had been based on _Mother_ leaving the Vault…”

            Nate thought of the radioactive hellhole that was Massachusetts. “She would have been dead in two days at best,” he answered bluntly. “Your mother is… emotionally fragile.”

            “Chem addiction and postpartum depression,” Shaun immediately replied. “Your files, both before and after the C.I.T cybernetics experiments, were extensive and once I had access to them, I studied them in detail.”

            “Exactly.” Nate sighed and looked around the sterile office. “I left her on ice. It was kinder.”

            Shaun’s eyebrow rose. “She’s alive?”

            “She was when I left the Vault.”

            His son nodded in satisfaction. “That’s good news. I was chosen because the genetic ability to adapt to synthetic components came from Mother; to know that we have another pure source of DNA for the Gen-3s is relieving, to say the least.”

            Then he coughed awkwardly. “I apologise. I’m used to dealing with scientists and synths, so my speech tends to be…”

            “Scientific?” Nate finished with some amusement. “I don’t expect an egghead to act like a soldier and I hope you don’t expect me to act like an egghead.”

            “Thank you, Father.” Shaun was obviously pleased at Nate’s understanding. “I apologise for leading you along like that, but I wanted you to see the reality of the Commonwealth before coming to us.”

            Nate looked at the child-synth. “I can appreciate the tactics, son. You obviously got my planning abilities.”

            “Obviously.” Shaun was smiling broadly. “I was preparing myself for an emotional onslaught, but…”

            The soldier shrugged. “I found my son and that’s what matters. Now, since I doubt sentimentality wasn’t the main reason for thawing me out, why did you bring me here?”

            Shaun took a deep breath and then sighed gustily. “I’m dying. And aside from ‘what if’, I wanted to share the blessings of the Institute with you. I think you can agree that despite the traumatic experience of my acquisition, I was the better for being raised by them.”

            “I’m not sure they were better parents than me,” Nate said quietly, “But I appreciate what you’re getting at. The Commonwealth is a hellhole.”

            “It is indeed,” Shaun agreed grimly. “We’re the best hope for humanity, but there’s little we can do for the Wastelanders.”

            Nate nodded. “If they’re not Raiders, they’re ghouls or super mutants and most of them don’t have the ability to take care of themselves. The amount of settlers kissing the boots of the Brotherhood of Steel in return for protection…”

            He might have liked the Minutemen, except they’d gotten themselves wiped out at Quincy but for that idiot at Concord. Nate had wiped out the Raiders outside the Museum of Freedom before going on his way because he couldn’t find Shaun if he was dead.

            Shaun’s eyebrow rose. “Aren’t you part of the Brotherhood?”

            “Alliance of convenience. Frankly, if they aren’t hoarding technology, they’re destroying it.” Nate met his son’s eyes. “And they want you dead. That’s unacceptable.”

            A subtle tension left Shaun’s shoulders. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I think you’re what we need.”

            The scientist turned for the door. “Let me introduce you to the directorate. Once that’s done, the facilities will be open to you and I have quarters set aside.”

            Shaun paused and looked over his shoulder. “Should I send a Courser to retrieve Mother…?”

            Nate thought for a moment and then shook his head. “No. She’s better on ice. I don’t think she could cope with you as an old man.”

            His son sighed with a nod. “You’re probably right. And frankly, I would rather not see a parent dealing with chem addiction.”

            “She’d shaken it off just before the war,” Nate protested, compelled to give Sparrow that much due.

            “But there’s always the chance of a relapse, particularly when emotional trauma is involved,” Shaun pointed out. “Things are… in flux at the moment, Father. When they’ve settled down, we can reconsider the decision.”

            Nate privately thanked God that Shaun had inherited pragmatism from him. “Put a synth watch on the Vault. If the Brotherhood get the bright idea of investigating it…”

            He cared for Sparrow, he really did, but she would blurt out information to the big strong soldiers because she’d grown up under the military structure all her life. If she thought he was dead, she’d probably happily marry someone like Danse, trading security for liberty like so many of his fellow Americans.

            “A wise idea.” Shaun smiled and started walking again. “Continue like this, Father, and I’ll convince the Institute you’re a better asset than Kellogg. I won’t lie, there will be some, ah…”

            “Wetwork?” Nate wasn’t naïve enough to believe that Shaun hadn’t just woke him up out of sentimentality.

            “In the beginning, yes,” Shaun confirmed. “You killed Kellogg and a Courser. That alone should convince the Directors of your competency.”

            “Nothing a few frag grenades couldn’t take care of,” Nate murmured. Yes, his son definitely had an agenda.

            But that was fine by Nate. He came from an old New York Irish crime clan, a foot soldier in truth, and if the Institute had a plan to save the world he was in on it. Besides, a man had to stand by his family no matter what.

            It really was kinder to keep Sparrow in the freezer. Nate could focus on the mission instead of worrying about her fragilities. When it was over, he could bring her here.

            As Shaun talked, Nate listened and began to plan.


	2. The One Left Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, postpartum depression, drug addiction and PTSD.

“So this is where that asshole came from.”

            Preston Garvey wasn’t usually given to foul language despite the circumstances he and the survivors of Quincy found themselves in before coming to Sanctuary but whenever the subject of ‘The Man Out of Time’ came up, he allowed himself a few choice words. After calmly executing the Raiders who’d pinned them down in the old Museum of Freedom, Nate Finlay had told the Minuteman he had his own problems to worry about before heading southeast, leaving the settlers to die. Only by grace of Sturges finding the courage to slip outside, grab the fusion core and power suit, and mow down the remaining scum with a mini-gun did everyone survive.

            It hadn’t been all bad. Mama Murphy’s prophecy about Sanctuary was proven true down to the wealth of resources and arable ground – Sturges reckoned there was enough materials from the ruined pre-War houses to build a settlement as big as Diamond City and with the defences to match. But that bitter taste of hope being answered with abandonment lingered long after the walls had been built and mounted with machine guns, after Jun and Marcy raised successful crops of corn, carrots and tatos just before winter closed in, and even after Abernathy Farm had joined forces with Sanctuary and Red Rocket Truck Stop had been turned into a trading post by Trashcan Carla.

            The bad taste could be the snow that lay on the ground, a hint of remaining radioactivity, as Preston and Sturges had made their way up to the Vault on the hill. Both of them were wrapped in scarves with only eyes showing against both the cold and the rads but it was still a relief to descend into the depths of the place that had produced Nate Finlay. According to the rumours, everyone else was dead from a cryostasis pod malfunction. Perhaps that was true and if so, there would be plenty for Sturges to scavenge once the bodies were cleared out and given respectful burials. Vault-Tec had been organised, so they’d be able to match bodies to names.

            “Well, would you look at that?” When they were in the Overseer’s office, Sturges examined a weapon of some kind encased behind thick glass. “I need me that gun.”

            Preston paused, examined the structure of the case, and then smashed the lock in with the butt of his laser musket. “Merry Christmas, Sturges.”

            The mechanic grinned at him. “That’s mighty kind of you, General Garvey.”

            According to the Overseer’s notes, it was called a Cryolator, meant to freeze enemies solid. Sturges examined it and was fairly sure he could adapt fusion cells into cold ammo for the weapon. “I can also get them refrigerators runnin’,” he added cheerfully.

            “Now _that_ would be a welcome Christmas gift,” Preston observed, imagining stocks of food and medications frozen for later use. Sturges grinned again and hacked the terminal to shut down the cryostasis pods.

            That was the last moment of levity as they ventured deeper into the Vault. Bullet holes and radroach carcasses marked Nate Finlay’s path out, skeletons in rags telling a bleaker story of the mutiny. When they reached the place where everyone had been frozen, Preston swallowed back a low sob of grief. Civilians who’d entered the facility hoping they’d escaped the bombs, only to be betrayed by those they trusted.

            “The hell-?” Sturges blurted out. “Preston, we got someone alive in here!”

            That ‘someone’ was a slender, wide-eyed woman who was beating her fists bloody on the glass lid of the cryostasis pod as Sturges struggled to open the stuck lever. Finally, it took him and Preston to yank it off, the lid opening with a hiss as the poor thing fell out and landed face-down on the concrete with an ugly crunch.

            Without being asked, Sturges handed Preston a stimpak, which he drove into the pre-War survivor’s upper arm and watched the thin layer of ice that still coated her melt, revealing rosy-pink skin and chestnut-brown hair with a hint of red to it. The Minuteman helped the woman to her feet, making soothing noises, as she coughed and spluttered and took great gulps of air.

            “Where’s Shaun? Where’s Nate?” she asked desperately, voice sweet and warm as Sugar Bombs mash on a winter’s morning. “They shot him and took my baby!”

            “Dunno to the first an’ in hell for the second if we’re lucky,” Sturges said sourly.

            “Nate, not Shaun,” Preston said hastily as her eyes widened. This had to be ‘Miss Sparrow’, as Codsworth called her – Nate Finlay’s wife.

            The woman shuddered and took a deep breath, visibly calming herself. That was good. Sparrow hadn’t done them any wrong and despite Nate being an asshole, she deserved whatever help they could give her. Preston didn’t believe in holding grudges against those who were unfortunate enough to be related to someone he despised.

            “I’m Preston Garvey and my friend is Sturges. We’re with the Commonwealth Minutemen,” he continued. “You’d be Sparrow, right? Codsworth will be happy to know you’re alive.”

            “I am.” Showing the kind of supreme courage that Preston had seen from a hundred settlers in the wake of a shattered life, Sparrow Finlay met each of their gazes. “Thank you for getting me out of there.”

            “No problem,” Preston assured her gently. “First things first – you need to warm up. We’ll get you out of here and take you back to Sanctuary. Up to walking?”

            “If you don’t mind supporting me, sure,” she immediately answered. “On the way, I would appreciate an explanation as to why you would like my husband to go to hell.”

            Sturges supported Sparrow easily, allowing Preston to walk ahead with musket at the ready. Just because they were a short walk up a hill from the settlement didn’t mean they should get careless. “It’s simple enough. We was trapped in Concord by Raiders an’ your husband came through, killed a half-dozen of them or so, an’ when Preston asked him to help clear out the ones in the Museum Nate told us he had his own problems and left us to die.”

            “We were the survivors of a massacre down Quincy way,” Preston explained grimly over his shoulder. “The way your husband went through that scum, he could have cleared out the Museum in an hour and gotten himself a set of power armour to boot, not to mention some friends in the Commonwealth. If Sturges hadn’t managed to break free of where we were trapped…”

            Old bitter memories surfaced and Preston ruthlessly forced them down again. Now was not the time to take out his anger at Nate on the man’s wife, who was likely abandoned herself. “I’m sorry. I’m not blaming you.”

            Sparrow regarded him, expression opaque. Her eyes were like a radstag doe’s, soft and wide and a deep dark brown. Despite the scar on her left cheek and the pinkish-white patch of skin around her left eye, she had lovely fine-boned features that made him think of some of the Upper Stands folk from Diamond City, only without the arrogance. “Understandable, Mr Garvey, and I don’t fault you for being angry. Nate must have been looking for Shaun – someone shot him and took our baby. He’s about a year old and…”

            Preston flushed a little in shame. What he’d taken for selfishness was only a father’s desperate drive to save his son. But still… “It’s been about two centuries, ma’am, since the bombs fell,” he said gently. “You were defrosted and then frozen again and we got no idea of when that might have happened.”

            Her eyes widened and she shuddered again. “But Nate was unfrozen recently if you know his name.”

            “About six months ago.” They were now in the main entrance to the Vault and Preston reminded himself to have the furniture brought up to Sanctuary on a community work day. Aside from being a bit battered and stained, it was in better shape than what they’d scavenged back in the settlement, and there were enough mattresses for everyone to have a proper bed. There were enough beds to have everyone sleeping off the ground, even Carla at Red Rocket and the Abernathy family at the farm. “Your husband’s quite the celebrity in the Commonwealth now.”

            Once the lift had gone up, Preston and Sturges paused to let Sparrow adjust to the bright light of a fine winter’s day and to take in the landscape before her. She gasped and shuddered a third time before looking determinedly down at the two-storey wall that surrounded Sanctuary. They’d used up most of the concrete in giving it solid foundations that couldn’t be tunnelled through and every fifty feet in the corrugated iron façade, a machine gun turret protected the openings. Two more watched over each gate and at each point of the compass, a windmill had been built to power the turrets and spotlights and Tesla coils.

            “You take your defences seriously,” Sparrow noted as they helped her down the hill.

            “We survived a running retreat across the entire Commonwealth,” Preston replied. “We learned a few things from that.”

            Within the walls it was mostly cleared land but for a cluster of iron and wood shacks at the centre with Jun and Marcy’s fields protected by a soft covering of snow. Come the spring, razorgrain would be sprouting green and be ready to harvest in time for the tatos, corn and carrots to be planted. Irrigation trenches had been dug from the river to the fields, pumps located in front of each house, and Carla swore that in the spring she could bring a Brahmin or three from further south.

            “It’s good to know people survived and are rebuilding,” Sparrow said softly.

            “That’s the Commonwealth for you. We don’t quit easy.” Sturges nodded to the power armour frame and the flame-painted suit locked within. “’Course, it helps to have someone like yours truly to handle all the mechanical stuff.”

            It was a short walk to the building which served them all as a community centre, cooking facilities and shelter for visitors to Sanctuary. Codsworth was already grilling some of the mole rat chunks from that infestation at Starlight Drive-In to the south while Mama Murphy was huddled in her chair by the fire. Both robot and elder looked up as the trio entered the hall, one’s eyes widening in sheer shock and the other’s narrowing in recognition.

            It had been Mama Murphy who told them to investigate the Vault today. Preston wondered what she’d seen… and where she found the chems to kick-start her Sight. Probably Carla, but who knew what stashes remained from the pre-War times?

            “Mum, you’re alive!” Codsworth sounded happy to see the Vault Dweller. “I’d hug you but if I leave this meat, it will be hopelessly burned within moments.”

            Sparrow’s smile was weak but joyful. “It’s okay, Codsworth. If you hugged me, I’d probably snap.”

            “I can’t believe Master Nate said you were gone,” Codsworth continued as he puttered around the cooking station. “He let me believe you were dead! If I’d known better, I would have marched up there and saved you myself.”

            “Everyone else is dead,” Sparrow answered sadly. “I guess it made sense for Nate to believe I was dead too.”

            “Maybe.” The doubt in the Mr Handy’s voice said it all. “I suppose he was focused on Shaun.”

            “Yeah.” Sparrow’s tone was now weary. “I guess so.”

            Her legs suddenly gave out and it took both men to stop her from hitting the ground again. Once she was steady, Preston grabbed a folding chair and set it across from Mama Murphy so that Sturges could help Sparrow sit down.

            “Get yourself warmed up and have something to eat,” the Minuteman advised gently. “We’ve got clean water and somewhere for you to sleep.”

            Sparrow nodded absently, her expression withdrawn. Obviously everything had caught up with her and Preston decided to give her a bit of space. With a nod to Sturges, he stepped back out into the cold.

            The mechanic soon joined him on the porch. “When she’s sleepin’, I’ll talk to Codsworth some,” he promised.

            So Sturges hadn’t missed the tone of the robot’s voice. That was… good. With the Brotherhood of Steel in the south and rumours filtering north about increased synth activity, the Minutemen would need every friend they could get. And the woman who knew what made the Man Out of Time tick would be a powerful friend indeed.


	3. Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for death, violence and fantastic racism, and mentions of misogyny, postpartum depression, drug addiction and PTSD. The Bible verse used is Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8 (NIV).

_“You can never have too many friends in the Commonwealth.”_

Sparrow ruminated on Preston Garvey’s words as the Minuteman spaded soil over the last grave that had been dug for the dead of Vault 111, patting the dark earth flat to neaten it up a bit. The section that had been designated as the graveyard was just past the old dead oak that had been the heart of their cul-de-sac and marked off by transplanted bits of pavement, more space than the thirty or so frozen corpses and a miscellaneous pile of bones that had been the Vault-Tec staff needed, but it was obvious the settlers wanted room to grow. She reminded herself that the total levelling of the housing estate she knew had been completed between autumn and now, every skerrick of material sorted into piles by the methodical survivors of the Quincy Massacre, and that they’d needed the resources to build their defences. Even in late winter, if she’d reckoned the season correctly, Preston and Sturges were making plans for the spring planting and building in between discussions on how to expand their militia.

            Yet they’d taken their time to hunt down every corpse and bit of bone in the Vault and see them decently buried. Because not all of the dead were Catholic, Sparrow found herself using the Lord’s Prayer instead of last rites, feeling that she was committing herself to the earth alongside the neighbours. Remains that could be identified were given a wooden grave marker with their name painted on it; those that couldn’t be were buried in a mass grave with “RIP Dead of Vault 111” painted on its marker. Concrete was too precious to waste on a more permanent memorial and steel rusted too easily.

When the dead were buried, Sparrow finished the service with Scripture: _“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.”_

Everyone bowed their heads and said “Amen” before scattering. Funerals were brief in the Commonwealth and none of them – save Codsworth – knew the dead. It was decent of them to hold a funeral though.

Preston rested his spade across his shoulders, amber eyes compassionate. It burned Sparrow to know that despite Nate being so consumed by the search for Shaun that he essentially left innocent people to die, the Quincy survivors had been nothing but decent to her. Even sharp-tongued Marcy Long spared a moment to teach Sparrow how to pump water or make a rag rug. For some reason, she’d been embraced as one of their own.

“Thank you,” Sparrow said finally. “You didn’t have to do this, but you did.”

“When you forget basic decency, you lose your humanity, and there’s precious little of that in the Commonwealth,” Preston replied quietly.

There was a pointed comment in there about Nate. Some of the rumours that carried over the radio were worrying, to say the least… and even with the best of intentions, her husband had left her in that Vault, probably because he knew how incapable she was of taking care of herself in a crisis. Once he knew Codsworth was alive and that there were people in Concord, he should have backtracked and defrosted her, left her with those who would owe him a favour.

“Nate was an Irish mob enforcer who became a Special Forces soldier,” Sparrow observed with a sigh. “If he doesn’t know you, he doesn’t care about you unless you can be of use.”

“That attitude might get him ahead in the short term but in the end, it’ll bite him in the ass,” Sturges pointed out. “Word travels, y’see, an’ once we get a few traders up here come spring, everyone’s gonna know the Minutemen are back.”

“The northwest is relatively deserted and disconnected with settlements and farms scattered everywhere,” Preston said. “The Minutemen never really paid that much attention up here because most of the folk live in the south near Diamond City. And well, it bit _us_ in the ass, didn’t it?”

“I suppose it did.” Sparrow regarded the militiaman, noting the expectant expression on his sepia-toned face. “Somehow I don’t think this is entirely about my husband.”

“You can never have too many friends in the Commonwealth,” Garvey repeated, rubbing the back of his neck between turned-up hat and duster. “And in a few weeks, the snows will begin to melt. I want to be ready to retake the Minutemen’s old base at Fort Independence by mid-spring and that means we need at least three or four settlements on our side.”

“You want me to sweet-talk them into supporting you?” Sparrow asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I want to win them over with more than rhetoric. Blake Abernathy passed on requests for help from Tenpines Bluff and Graygarden, both fairly tough jobs as they require taking on Raiders who are dug into Corvega and mirelurks who’ve poisoned the Weston water treatment facility.” The Minuteman leaned on his spade. “You can handle a pistol and need to learn about the Commonwealth anyways. If we leave Sturges here, we could take care of both problems and be back here by first thaw.”

She read the implied request that she return the help that she’d been given. Preston would never _demand_ her assistance but Sparrow knew very well how far rumour could spread if helped along by willing mouths.

“I’ll help until first thaw,” she promised. “I can’t say as to what I’ll do once it becomes easier to travel south.”

“Fair enough,” Preston said readily. “It’s more than Nate ever did.”

 _Nate didn’t owe you one,_ Sparrow thought. She understood the grudge that the Minutemen held and didn’t bother trying to defend her husband. He was on a mission, just like up in Anchorage during the Great War, and she was left behind to pick up the pieces.

“By the time you get back, should have a place ready for you,” Sturges added. “Won’t be much, but it’ll be yours.”

“Thanks,” she told the mechanic. “I’ll see if I can bring back some useful salvage from Corvega. It was a car-building facility once.”

“That would be mighty appreciated, Miss Sparrow.” The dark-haired Minuteman touched his forehead before sauntering off to no doubt work a little more on his power armour.

“We’ll leave tomorrow and go to Graygarden first,” Preston announced. “It’s a farm run by Mr Handies and the biggest source of food in the north.”

Sparrow nodded with an inward sigh. It would be a grim cold slog through the snow and the name ‘mirelurk’ didn’t sound too promising. But she owed the Minutemen, both for saving her and Nate abandoning them, and a Killian always paid her debts. “I’d better grab something warm to eat and catch some sleep then,” she said.

“I’ll wake you at dawn,” the Minuteman promised as he turned away. “And Sparrow?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let on you’re Nate’s wife outside of Sanctuary. He’s pissed off several people in the Commonwealth and you don’t deserve to get caught in the crossfire.”

His grim tone made her shiver but she made a noise of agreement before heading to the community hall. What exactly had Nate been doing beyond the rumours?

…

In the span of three weeks, Sparrow was introduced to super mutants (if Dumb and Ugly had gotten married and spawned green-skinned children with anger management issues), mirelurks (if crabs had taken Psychobuff until they’d grown at least tenfold in size and aggression), radroaches (cat-sized roaches that were actually tasty when grilled), feral ghouls (radioactive zombies), mole rats (unholy hybrids of two already repulsive animals), and a big horned monster with scales that Preston called a ‘deathclaw’. That was on top of the Raiders and random feral dogs they’d encountered on their travels.

            Now they were casing Corvega and the strategic placement of the Raider sentries in preparation to take down the biggest gang of murderers in the north. A detachment of these assholes had nearly wiped out Preston and the Quincy survivors in Concord – and beyond the promised allegiance of Tenpines Bluff if they were eliminated, the Minuteman wanted some payback.

            The militia’s signature weapon, the laser musket, was a sniping gun designed to be cranked up to maximum power before being fired. It had done them little good when the Castle had been overrun by mirelurks a couple years ago, meaning that Preston switched between it and a combat shotgun. Sparrow’s 10mm pistol was now fully modded thanks to what she’d picked up off various Raiders and Preston’s patient teaching while, thanks to her cybernetic eye (which she hadn’t revealed due to the prejudice against synths), she’d proven herself to be an expert sniper by dint of activating the VATS programme. With a little patience and a lot of vegetable starch, she now wore a full set of boiled leather armour over flannel shirt and denim jeans tucked into combat boots with a Minuteman’s broad-brimmed hat shading her gaze against snow glare.

            “It’s going to be touch and go,” Preston finally said as they hunkered down behind a low concrete wall. “We know there’s ten or twelve of the bastards outside, but who knows how many are inside, waiting for some action?”

            “I wish we could have brought someone from Tenpines Bluff,” Sparrow agreed sourly. “Or Sturges in power armour.”

            Preston sighed. “If we go down, Sturges will need to rebuild the Minutemen. But-“

            “Send them back to hell!”

            A gruff baritone shattered the silence just before the sound of lasers and growling ferals reached their ears. Sparrow and Preston exchanged glances before the former shrugged. “Never too many friends?”

            “They could be Brotherhood of Steel. I’ve heard they hunt down and strip old facilities for pre-War tech,” Preston observed quietly. “But… you’re right. Having them owe us a favour could come in handy.”

            It was the work of five minutes to slink away from Corvega and reach the heart of Lexington, where a bareheaded man in power armour and two soldiers wearing orange and beige jumpsuits were holding off a mixture of Raiders and feral ghouls. With a shared glance, Sparrow and Preston sniped the remaining Raiders, trusting that the Brotherhood soldiers could handle the ghouls.

            As she sighted along the barrel, seeing a heartbreakingly young face under the dirt and war paint explode after she pulled the trigger, Sparrow wondered if this was how Nate had become callous and cold – just fighting for survival in a hell of blood and battle. She no longer hesitated in shooting those who would harm her and wondered if she was the poorer for it.

            The fighting was ended within minutes and the Brotherhood soldier in armour turned to face them. “Thanks for the assistance, civilians,” he said gravely. “Not many would throw themselves into a firefight like that.”

            “I lost friends to the ghouls and Raiders,” Preston answered grimly. “I’m assuming you’re Brotherhood?”

            “I am. Paladin Danse, Brotherhood of Steel.” The man raked a gauntleted hand through scruffy brown-black hair, watching them assessingly.

            “General Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen.” Preston offered his right hand and after a moment of deliberation, the Paladin took it, shaking once with his armoured fist.

            “Rumour painted the Minutemen wiped out,” Danse noted.

            “We’re rebuilding,” Preston said cautiously. “I assume you’re here for Corvega?”

            “We are. What’s your business here?” Those dirt-brown eyes narrowed a little.

            “Our job’s to wipe out the Raiders in the factory,” Sparrow replied, injecting a hint of softness to soothe the suspicion in Danse’s gaze. “Mutual enemies, Paladin Danse. Aside from some common salvage – some circuitry and components for machine gun turrets – we have no interest in the technology itself.”

            The man’s thick eyebrows shot up. “You’re proposing a temporary alliance?”

            “One can never have too many friends in the Commonwealth, Paladin.” Sparrow saw Preston smile from the corner of her eye. “The fusion cores and advanced tech are yours. I’m sure you can spare some gears, screws, aluminium and circuitry so we can defend our settlements.”

            “Perhaps, but the same materials can be used to mod power armour and laser rifles,” Danse countered. “I don’t want to sound like an uncaring asshole but the Brotherhood’s here to deal with the Institute, once and for all, and that means we need resources.”

            Sparrow tilted her head. “You let us take some spare parts, we trade you some food in the spring.”

            Military logistics weren’t unknown to her, especially with her father being a supply sergeant, and one thing Sparrow knew was that an army like the Brotherhood of Steel marched on its stomach.

            “Haylen?” Danse turned around to face a young woman wearing a many-pocketed vest who had the freckles that only a redhead could possess for all her cap hid her tresses.

            “That’s pretty fair, Paladin,” Haylen responded. “We can only travel so far before we’re overextended. If the Minutemen are reorganising in the northwest that gives us a viable trading partner.”

            He looked back at Sparrow and Preston. “I’ll let you take half the common salvage and five bits of circuitry in return for three crates of food.”

            The pre-War survivor folded her arms. “I assume that includes weapons and armour.”

            “Of course not.” Danse looked shocked that she’d even dared to suggest that weapons and armour were common salvage.

            “Then one crate of food. We can spare _some_ crops but not what you’re demanding.” Sparrow smiled sweetly at him, recalling the times spent haggling in the local markets in college, an activity that would have horrified her mother.

            “Paladin, if we let her take the common weapons, that will save the bigger pieces of salvage for us,” Haylen pointed out. “If Corvega’s half as big as the records imply, we’re going to need a full team of Scribes to go through it.”

            “And please don’t reply that you’re going to do the lion’s share of fighting,” Sparrow added. “We’d already worked out a plan of attack for outside the facility. It was the guts of it that had us worried.”

            Danse sighed. “You get the Raiders’ equipment for common salvage and six bits of circuitry for three crates of fresh produce no later than the sixth week after the thaw, delivered to Cambridge Police Station. What about medicines and chems?”

            “Even split with you taking the chems,” Sparrow responded quickly. No need to put temptation in her path. “Minutemen don’t use that crap and we sure’s hell don’t trade in it.”

            The Paladin nodded approvingly, his face softening a touch. “We don’t use anything other than Med-X or Rad-X. Good to see there are people in the Commonwealth who have similar discipline.”

            “Done. As for ammo, we take what the Raiders use and you get the fusion cells.” With only Preston using the laser musket, they could spare the cells and trade the rest to Carla or outfit the other settlements with decent weapons.

            “Affirmative.” Danse regarded her wryly. “We should get you in Logistics. You drive a hard bargain.”

            Sparrow shrugged. “I just know the worth of everything.”

            And she did. Sturges had drilled her in that knowledge so she wouldn’t get cheated, as Preston made for a poor haggler with his frank candour.

            “Any preferences for food?” Preston asked quietly.

            “Corn, carrots, gourds, melons… If I see another tato, I will scream. Razorgrain would make me die of happiness.” That was Haylen.

            The General scratched his chin. “I’ll see what can be done. We should get to it before the Raiders realise we’re here.”

            “Agreed.” Danse nodded before jerking his chin at the two soldiers. “The quiet one is Knight-Sergeant Rhys and the tato-hater is Scribe Haylen.”

            Rhys, a dour man with a military buzz-cut and wary eyes, nodded curtly while Haylen smiled cheerfully.

            “The haggler is Sparrow and we’re hoping she’ll stay on as our quartermaster,” Preston introduced. “I didn’t even know she could drive that hard a bargain.”

            “That’s me, full of hidden talents,” Sparrow said with forced lightness. Somehow she knew that Nate would have crossed paths with the Brotherhood of Steel – they were a powerful military faction and in the search for Shaun, he would have at least checked them out.

            Danse’s mouth twitched with amusement. “I’m sure. Now, I assume you want to take care of the outside while we deal with the inside Raiders?”

            “Works for us. Once we’ve cleared the outside, we’ll enter from the top.”

            “Outstanding.” Danse inclined his head and then picked up his helmet, tossing it so that it landed in his hands, and donned it. “Ad Victoriam!”

            “To Victory,” Sparrow murmured. She remembered her Latin from law school very well.

            The Brotherhood soldiers looked in her direction and she ignored their glances. They had a job to do.

            What had Nate done, to force her to be so wary of strangers in a world where you could never have too many friends?


	4. Blame and Machinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for death, violence and fantastic racism, and mentions of PTSD and drug addiction.

“Well, that was a cock-up from start to finish.”

            Rhys’ surly comment summed up Danse’s opinion about the raid on Bunker Hill as a medical Scribe bandaged the gash on his bicep from where a Railroad heavy’s ripper had cut through his power armour’s plating. The Knight-Sergeant was sitting on the vertibird’s other bench with Haylen tending his shoulder wound while Knight-Lieutenant Finlay, who’d returned to them after a long absence, leaned nonchalantly against the wall in full power armour with the boot magnets activated. When Arthur had demanded an explanation for not returning as soon as possible and without Madison Li, Nate had flatly informed the Elder that he’d been grieving and threw the holotape at his feet before storming off. Danse had never seen Maxson looked so ashamed in his life and a swift promotion had followed by way of apology, which seemed to soothe some of the pre-War soldier’s ruffled feathers.

            “I did my best,” Finlay informed Rhys coolly. “But the Railroad beat us to the Gen-3s.”

            “You should have stayed with Danse,” Rhys retorted, hissing as Haylen injected another stimpak.

            “I lost him in the chaos,” Nate countered. “The Paladin should have stuck with me.”

            Danse almost clenched his fist until he remembered that he had an injury. The reason he’d lost Nate in the mess was because of the Railroad heavies who engaged him. The Knight-Lieutenant had made a beeline for the cellar where the synths were hiding by dint of punching through the settlement’s walls with his power armour and mowing down Railroad fighters and synths in his way. If commendations were going to come as a result of carnage, Finlay would be receiving one.

            The flight to the Prydwen was tense, Rhys and Nate glaring at each other, and Danse refused the medical Scribe’s offer of some Med-X. The report was going to be hard enough without him under the effect of a powerful narcotic. He’d suffered through worse, after all.

            Once the vertibird had docked, Danse crooked a finger at both Knights. “With me,” he ordered. There were three different viewpoints – Haylen had been on the vertibird the whole time – and it would take Arthur’s tactical mind to piece together how the seemingly foolproof plan had failed.

            The Elder stood at the viewpoint on the command port, hands clasped behind his back, and the expression on his harsh, scarred features was thunderous to say the least. “What the hell went wrong down there?” he rasped. “Two vertibirds shot down, two Paladins and a dozen Knights dead, and the synths escaped.”

            Danse opened his mouth to speak but Nate beat him. “Paladin Danse was separated from me in the melee because he got caught up in a fight with Railroad heavies, Elder Maxson.”

            “One of them had a Brotherhood-issue ripper, Elder,” Rhys interjected. “Probably Paladin Fine’s weapon. He was the first one down thanks to the vertibird and a missile launcher.”

            Maxson pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Paladin Danse?”

            “Both Knights are speaking the truth. Finlay charged ahead and I was left to engage the two heavies at his back. If it wasn’t for Rhys, there’d be _three_ dead Paladins.” Danse managed to keep his voice neutral despite the urge to punch Finlay for making the debacle seem like entirely his fault. The Paladin would take his fair share of responsibility but not the whole blame. “Despite the losses, there are a few key pieces of information I can share about Institute tactics.”

            “Oh?” Maxson’s heavy eyebrow rose.

            “They have signalling grenades that can summon more Gen-1 and Gen-2 synths as cannon fodder. The Coursers wear distinctive black uniforms and move too fast to appear human despite being Gen-3s. They seem more interested in reacquiring Gen-3 synths instead of executing them for running away. And their laser weapons are far weaker than ours.”

            “Useful,” Maxson conceded.

            The Elder turned around and looked over the ruins of Boston, a plume of smoke rising from Bunker Hill where the dead were being burned. Too many innocents had been caught up in that battle. “This will cost us considerably in compensation to the settlement because several people, including Old Man Stockton, a prominent caravaner, were killed in the crossfire.”

            Danse shuddered. “I’ve been saving my pay with Proctor Teagan, Elder Maxson. Use it to help pay the debts and garnish my stipend until you see fit.”

            Maxson turned around with a flare of leather. “You feel this is your fault, Paladin?”

            “The only one who didn’t screw up on this mission was Rhys. I didn’t anticipate the amount of resistance we received, especially the interference from the Institute, and Finlay put too much distance between us for each other to watch the other’s back.” Danse forced himself to meet his Elder’s hot blue gaze despite the shame of failure that crawled into his belly.

            “You should have sent me in alone,” Nate said calmly. “Danse froze at a critical moment when the first vertibird was shot down – just like what happened to Knight Cutler and his team, right?”

            “Brotherhood soldiers stand together, hence why you weren’t sent alone,” Arthur said. “What are you implying, Finlay?”

            “I had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder because of the Battle of Anchorage,” Nate responded quietly. “I recognise the signs in someone else.”

            Cade’s words from his physical on the return to the Prydwen haunted him and Danse recalled his insistence that he was perfectly functional. But he hadn’t paused, had he?

            “The Paladin’s gotten through everything the Commonwealth has thrown at him,” Rhys countered.

            “But he’s going to snap. I know, because I did.” Nate’s mouth twisted bitterly. “The only reason I was honourably discharged instead of court-martialled was because my mother-in-law told my commanding officer it was because my wife was suffering a mental breakdown.”

            Arthur’s expression grew grave and Danse felt his gut twist. “Your point?”

            “Danse is a good soldier. Put him on light duties or medical leave and have him see a counsellor.” Nate’s voice was sincere. “It’s not his fault this went bad, Elder Maxson, and we got out alive because of his leadership. But if you don’t intervene now, you’re going to lose a damn fine man.”

            “Knight-Captain Cade has-“ Arthur shook his head, cutting off the sentence, and looked at Danse. “Paladin, this only confirms what Cade’s been telling me. You’re on light duties effective immediately.”

            “I… Please, no.” Danse was ready to beg. “I can fight.”

            Arthur’s face was compassionate. “When a weapon’s broken, we stop using it until it’s fixed, Paladin. I’d put you on medical leave like old Brandis but I know that would make things worse for you. You’ll be doing a combination of guard duty on procurement runs to our allied settlements, recruiting Initiates and moving things for Ingram.”

            “Elder-“

            “My decision is final, Danse.” Arthur turned to look at the two Knights. “Rhys, you are promoted to Paladin effective immediately. A set of power armour will be made available to you.”

            The shaven-headed soldier blinked before saluting. “Yes, Elder Maxson.”

            “You will be in command of Recon Squad Gladius, which will receive a fresh influx of new Knights.”

            “Thank you.” Rhys looked apologetically at Danse.

            “Accept the promotion, Paladin. If I could have chosen my successor, it would have been you.” Danse managed to salute him. Rhys deserved it.

            Maxson regarded Finlay. “In light of your recent losses, I’m putting you on a month’s bereavement leave, Knight-Lieutenant. I expect you report into Cambridge Police Station once a week.”

            “Yes, Elder Maxson.” Finlay’s expression was bland as he saluted.

            “Then you and Rhys are dismissed. We will be holding services for the dead at sunset tomorrow. I suggest you attend.”

            The two men exited the viewpoint as Arthur smoothed down his battlecoat. “Danse, we need to talk in my office.”

            With a heavy heart, Danse followed the Elder to the main deck, Maxson sending a Squire for food and drink. His quarters were the size of the room that the Paladin shared with Brandis, the two men sleeping in shifts to avoid troubling each other with nightmares, and aside from a personal bathroom, a better grade of alcohol and a comfortable pillow on a double bed, it was no different to any other officer’s. After the Squire delivered mirelurk stew with a side of fresh corn and carrots, they were left alone, Arthur shutting and locking the door himself.

            “Whiskey or bourbon?” Arthur offered.

            “Whiskey,” Danse said. “Arthur-“

            “I’m sorry to have thrown you into the rotating vertibird blades, Danse, but there’s more at stake than you realise.” Arthur’s hands – large and graceful despite his thick fingers – were busy pouring them both shots of tawny liquid. Judging by the Killian label, Maxson was breaking out the good stuff.

            Danse sat down at the table, arranging the plates of food so that Arthur got the bigger portion. It looked like Mess Sergeant Tuckey had found a frozen bag of vegetables somewhere. “Oh?” he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

            “Indeed. The contact you made with the Commonwealth Minutemen was more fortuitous than you realise.” Arthur set the glasses on the table, looked down at the plates, and promptly switched the portions so that Danse got the larger serving. “I’m not happy about a paramilitary force being located across the harbour from us and today’s mess is going to strain relations unless we’re prompt in paying compensation to the people of Bunker Hill, but we received some very interesting information concerning Knight-Lieutenant Finlay from General Garvey.”

            The Paladin obeyed the unspoken order to start eating. Tuckey would never be promoted from his current position because the man was a fucking genius in the kitchen, but as was Arthur’s way, the Mess Sergeant got a Paladin’s pay. The mirelurk was perfectly cooked, thick with chopped tatos and silt beans, and the vegetables tasted fresh. “I take it General Garvey held up his end of the bargain?”

            “Yes.” Arthur’s smile was a little thin. “Three crates of fresh produce delivered to Cambridge by the General and his second-in-command Sturges, apologising for being a few days late because they’d retaken their old base at Fort Independence and needed to set up proper supply routes.”

            “They were late?” Danse didn’t think the first thaw had been that long ago.

            “Apparently so. Their quartermaster has a Pipboy and calculated the exact date.” Arthur began to tuck into his own food. “It appears Garvey had encountered Finlay shortly after he’d emerged from the Vault and what he told Paladin Rockfowl was… troubling.”

            Danse swallowed some of his food and waited for Arthur to continue.

            The Elder sighed. “Finlay left a group of innocent settlers to die in Concord – only Sturges’ heroics allowed them all to survive being pinned down by Raiders. I can appreciate pragmatism during a mission but with the way Finlay fights, both of us know he could have intervened readily enough. He told Garvey he had his own problems and headed south.”

            It seemed there was more of the Lyons’ teaching in Arthur than Danse realised. He swallowed his whiskey, feeling the fire slide down his throat and pool in his belly. “That’s… cold. But if he was looking for his son-“

            “Perhaps. But there has been a troubling routine of Finlay using others and then throwing them into the vertibird blades from Concord to Diamond City.” Arthur’s voice was grim. “That doesn’t count the records we were able to dig up from the Citadel, Fort Hagen and the National Guard District Headquarters.”

            The Elder reached across to pick up yellowed files tucked into an ancient folder from his desk, shoving his half-finished meal aside to open it. A grainy black and white photograph fell out and Danse caught it. Nate Finlay, wearing a black suit, stood next to a slender woman in an extravagant white lace dress. In the pre-War era, women wore white lace to their weddings, according to Brotherhood lore.

            “Finlay lost a leg in Anchorage,” Arthur continued as he shuffled through the files. “He was selected for an experimental cybernetics programme at the Commonwealth Institute of Technology. Out of twenty subjects, only five survived, and he married one of them – Sparrow Killian.”

            Even in the faded photograph, a distinctive patch of vitiligo surrounding the left eye of the bride was visible. Danse superimposed the face he recalled from Corvega in colour, filling out rosy-pink flesh tanned by the sun, radstag-doe eyes that regarded the world warily, and chestnut-brown hair with an auburn tinge pulled into a loose bun beneath a brown hat. “That explains their participation in the Vault programme and the Institute’s interest in their offspring,” he finally said. “I can also catch Finlay in a lie – his wife’s alive and working with the Minutemen.”

            Arthur’s blue eyes widened. “The quartermaster? Sparrow Killian’s father was in logistics and from what I understand, her mother may have been a founding member of the Enclave.”

            Danse nodded. “Yes. I assume you’re meeting Garvey soon?”

            “The day after tomorrow. I want our dead honoured before I worry about the Commonwealth.” Arthur raked a hand through his undercut. “That photograph will be coming with us. I don’t know exactly what’s going on but the Minutemen deserve the courtesy of knowing who their quartermaster is.”

            Danse regarded his Elder. “I understand that, Arthur, but why did you put me through the wringer?”

            Arthur’s expression was grim. “I want to give Finlay enough rope to hang himself. While you’re on light duties, your task will be to discover whatever you can about ‘the Man Out of Time’. The news I’ve had from Goodneighbour is… concerning.”

            “I’m not an investigator. I’m just a grunt.”

            “You are one of the few people I can trust. That raid should have gone off flawlessly today. We’d paid off Mayor Kessler and there should have been only Railroad agents to deal with.” Arthur’s fingers steepled as he leaned on his elbows. “I know you aren’t an Institute plant and Rhys is fifth-generation Brotherhood. That means that either Haylen or Finlay is a leak and since only one of them went to the Institute recently…”

            “Keep a watch on Haylen as a control,” Danse suggested, hating to say it.

            “Of course.” Arthur sighed. “I’m sorry, Danse. I hate to do this to you. But Finlay wants you out of the way for a reason and I want to find out why.”

            “I understand,” the Paladin said reluctantly. “I don’t like it, but I understand.”

            “Excellent.” Maxson looked down at the photograph in Danse’s hand. “I don’t know what game the Institute’s playing, but I intend to win it.”

            Danse remembered Sparrow’s sweet smile and found himself hoping that she was innocent of the Institute’s plans. Because if she wasn’t, Maxson would show no mercy.


	5. Give A Little, Take A Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for death, violence and fantastic racism, and mentions of postpartum depression, misogyny, medical experimentation, drug addiction and PTSD. I deleted the previous chapter because I probably made Nate too much of an asshole even though he’s meant to be an antagonist with issues.

Elder Maxson was about six inches taller than Preston with the muscular build of a man who probably grew up in power armour. Clad in a fleece-lined leather coat that hung like it was plated over a tight black version of the Brotherhood’s uniform, his harsh features and vivid blue eyes spoke of a soldier forced into combat far too young. If half the stories Danse had told him were true, the commander had been fighting since the age of eleven, about four years younger than Garvey was when he first picked up a gun. From what he understood, most Brotherhood soldiers were born to it, following in the footsteps of their ancestors from the aftermath of the Great War.

            Maxson’s grip was firm but not crushing, a fact that Preston appreciated as they shook hands. The Brotherhood raid on Bunker Hill had gone to hell in a handbasket because of Institute interference and, to the younger man’s credit, Initiates were rebuilding walls and improving facilities in lieu of monetary compensation. So they met in the old diner just outside of the Castle, a vertibird parked nearby, and both sides having three people aside from their leaders. Things were tense despite the friendly encounters between individual squads and Preston wanted to hash out an agreement.

            On Maxson’s side stood Paladin Danse, who looked like hell despite his military bearing – given that the man was the highest-ranking Brotherhood survivor of the Battle of Bunker Hill, Preston supposed his soldiers’ deaths haunted him. If things remained friendly, the General would be happy to remind him that it was the Institute who made a bad situation worse. While the Minutemen agreed with the Railroad in principle, the fact that they’d initiated a major conflict in the name of synth liberation without regard for civilians pissed Preston off more than a little. The other two were ranking officers: Proctor Teagan, who handled procurement and Senior Scribe Neriah, who apparently had some ideas on rad-resistant crops.

            Preston was accompanied by Ronnie Shaw, who held the rank of Colonel after getting the plans for the old artillery guns; Sturges, who’d settled into the position of Major; and Sparrow, who was going by her maiden name of Killian and working as quartermaster. The Brotherhood were studying her rather closely and the General had to wonder why.

            “It’s good to finally meet you,” Preston said, breaking the tense silence.

            “And you.” Maxson’s voice rasped like a whetstone across a knife’s edge. “Shall we sit?”

            They did so, the pre-War stools uncomfortable with most of their padding gone, and Maxson laid out a number of yellowed papers in a plastic folder with a black and white photograph attached to the front with a bobby pin. “You warned us about Nate Finlay’s conduct prior to his joining the Brotherhood of Steel and so we would return the favour,” the Elder said bluntly.

            “If you’re referring to Sparrow bein’ that asshole’s wife, we know,” Sturges countered smoothly. “Me an’ Preston got her out of the icebox he left her in.”

            Eyebrows shot up on the Brotherhood’s side. “I… see,” Maxson finally said, looking directly at Sparrow, whose lips were white. “Do you know what the Institute is, Mrs. Finlay?”

            “I would prefer to be called Quartermaster Killian,” was her soft response. “And I can make a few educated guesses.”

            “They were a pre-War group of scientists who went underground after the bombs fell and now they litter the Commonwealth with their technological abominations,” Maxson said flatly. “Including machines that have free will and can pass as human.”

            “Just so you know, the Minutemen have decided to treat each Gen-3 synth on a case by case basis in the settlements we protect,” Preston informed Maxson. “If they look human, act human and are willing to defend their neighbours, we’re not going to turn away potential Minutemen.”

            Maxson’s face darkened. “That is an unwise course of action, General Garvey.”

            “Maybe so. But one of our allied settlements is run by ghouls, so as long as you’re sentient and mean no harm, we’ll return the favour.”

            “Not a lot we can do about Minutemen territory,” Proctor Teagan murmured. “Just so long as General Garvey understands that if ghouls or synths cross into the area we control, we will deal them appropriately.”

            Preston’s lips tightened but he nodded. “If they’re in Minutemen uniforms, I’d appreciate them being escorted back to our settlements.”

            “Very well.” Maxson didn’t look particularly pleased but since the settlements he controlled weren’t the most productive, he’d have to swallow his pride a little to get the fresh food that his soldiers needed.

            “Of course, I’ll make sure that my people have a damn good reason for crossing into your territory if we can’t radio ahead and let you take over the fight against anything hostile,” the General promised to soothe the man’s riled temper.

            “That would be appreciated.” Maxson nodded, mouth still tight. Preston got the feeling that he wasn’t used to dealing with someone who could tell him no.

            “In the interests of disclosure, I should tell you that we’ve found old artillery plans that we’ll be building soon at the Castle and several major settlements,” Preston continued calmly. “If we can call artillery strikes on feral ghoul or super mutant infestations, our lives are going to be a lot easier.”

            Maxson’s smile was thin. “Offer one hand and arm the other. I can see why the Minutemen chose you as their leader, Garvey.”

            Preston had been sincere in the disclosure but it seemed Maxson assumed everyone thought as he did. Though Ronnie had put it something like that herself, only more colourfully.

            “Returning to the subject at hand, Finlay was recruited by Paladin Danse after helping his team fight off some feral ghouls and achieve their objective,” Maxson continued, looking at Sparrow again. “He approached us for the resources to build a molecular relay into the Institute in search of Shaun Finlay. This was after he executed Kellogg, the man who shot him, and a Courser who had a chip that was needed for the teleportation device.”

            “Nate was black ops – covert warfare,” Sparrow answered softly. “My mother worked for the D.I.A. and my father handled a lot of the government’s more questionable activities in Canada.”

            “I know. The Citadel – our base in the Capital Wasteland – was once the Pentagon and held extensive records.” Maxson tilted his head. “What do you know about the Enclave?”

            “The _who_?” Sparrow’s voice was genuinely confused. Since they’d found her in winter, Preston had learned to read her rather well.

            “The secret government cabal that oversaw the Vault programme and several other horrendous scientific projects,” Maxson replied flatly. “The Brotherhood has warred with them twice – and defeated them. Your mother, Elisabeth Killian nee Ahern, was a founding member.”

            Ronnie cleared her throat, pinning Maxson with a glare. “I thought we were going to talk about trade, not see one of our own interrogated like she was a criminal,” she declared harshly. “I haven’t met this Finlay and if he crosses my path, I’ll run him off with a musket no matter who he works with. But I won’t stand by and watch the Brotherhood treat one of our people – a ranking officer no less – like crap.”

            Interestingly enough, Maxson backed down a little, his aggressive posture easing though his gaze was still suspicious. Preston filed that note for later; he was used to a female authority figure. “I find it hard to believe that she knows _nothing_ ,” the Elder said in a half-apologetic tone. “The Enclave is destroyed but what this woman knows could prove vital in our understanding of its history… and that of the Institute, especially as she’s one of five survivors from the experimental cybernetics programme which likely is the origin of the synth project.”

            “If you want, we’ll get Sparrow to do up some holotapes for you,” Preston conceded. “But she’s done nothing but good by us and the Minutemen stand by their own.”

            “A commendable attitude,” Danse growled. “Elder Maxson, whatever’s going on, I’d say that Quartermaster Killian’s involvement is peripheral at best – seeing as her own husband left her on ice.”

            “I’ll answer whatever questions to the best of my ability so long as mine are answered reciprocally,” Sparrow countered, meeting Maxson’s gaze. “I also get the feeling you haven’t told Nate that I’m out and about.”

            “We haven’t,” Danse confirmed. “He’s proving… questionable.”

            “I… would appreciate you keeping that to yourself for a little while longer,” Sparrow finally said. “Some of what I’ve heard out of Goodneighbour and Diamond City is… not good.”

            She turned her wide eyes on Maxson. “Elder, please – do you know if he found Shaun?”

            “According to Finlay, your son is dead,” Maxson responded starkly. “Whatever purpose the Institute stole him for…”

            “But according to sources in Diamond City, a ten-year-old boy with chestnut hair and green-hazel eyes named Shaun lived with this Kellogg,” Sparrow said desperately.

            Danse and Maxson exchanged glances. “Synth?” the former asked.

            “Most likely. Or Finlay’s lying _again_.” Maxson didn’t sound pleased about the possibility.

            The Elder looked back at Sparrow. “Could you imagine why your husband would leave you in the Vault and tell everyone that you were dead?”

            “Probably because I’m a nervous wreck who just shook off a chem addiction days before the bombs fell,” Sparrow answered bitterly. “Our Mr Handy Codsworth was better at taking care of Shaun than I was.”

            Preston winced. Sparrow didn’t pull any punches about her mental health issues. But most of the Minutemen had issues and she kept doing her job, so he didn’t bother her about it.

            Senior Scribe Neriah, hitherto silent, opened her mouth. “Yes, your medical files were extensive. Car crash after you graduated from college, lost a quarter of your face, put into an experimental cybernetics programme because people owed your mother favours, got married to one of the other survivors, had a baby, suffered postpartum depression and turned to chems to self-medicate.”

            “Fifteen people died screaming because their bodies rejected the implants,” Sparrow said hoarsely. “And now it seems my son was targeted because of the immunity Nate and I shared. I still have nightmares, Maxson, and always will. But suicide’s a sin in my faith and I’ve learned that the chems don’t help.”

            The Elder met her gaze. “I assume that you know of Captain Roger Maxson, correct?”

            “I suspected you were related to him. His name came up a couple times but I… tried not to pay too much attention to Mom and Dad’s dealings. Wilful ignorance, I suppose, but a lot of pre-War folk were good at that.”

            “My ancestor was based at a facility in Mariposa, California, that engineered the virus which creates super mutants,” Maxson said softly. “When he discovered the actions of the scientists, he executed them and seceded from the United States, only for the bombs to fall several days later. He and his soldiers – and their families – trekked to Lost Hills. And so began the Brotherhood of Steel, which is dedicated to preventing the technological and scientific excesses of yesteryear.”

            “That explains you goin’ after the Institute,” Sturges observed.

            “Yes.” Maxson sighed. “I don’t know what to make of you, Sparrow Killian.”

            “How about a grieving mother who’s trying to help rebuild the Commonwealth because it’s the right thing to do?” Sparrow asked bitterly. “I can’t change the past, Maxson – and if your ancestor was assigned to one of _those_ facilities, then it meant he was black ops like Nate. Roger Maxson may have been closer to my husband than you like to think.”

            “But in the end, my ancestor found the line he wouldn’t cross,” Maxson retorted. “Did your parents?”

            “Probably not,” Sparrow admitted. “It’s good to know that despite the best efforts of both sides, humanity survived and is rebuilding. Maybe you’ll learn a few lessons from whatever history I can share with you.”

            “Enough.” Preston leaned forward and looked Maxson in the eye. “As Colonel Shaw said, we’re here to discuss trade, cooperation and that sort of thing. I assume that’s still on the table?”

            “It is,” Teagan said quickly, flashing his superior a warning look. “Shall we begin?”

            Preston sat back with an inward sigh of relief. He could see where Maxson was coming from but damned if he was going to let the Brotherhood of Steel treat the Commonwealth like it was a feudal kingdom. Give a little, take a little, and even the most unlikely of people could be good neighbours if they respected each other.


	6. Histories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, postpartum depression, and PTSD. Some accidental voyeurism involved.

Having her past dragged out in front of the Minutemen hadn’t been on Sparrow’s to-do list for the first official meeting between them and the Brotherhood of Steel, but she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, her father’s old friend Nick was reincarnated as a battered synth detective, Shaun was apparently dead and replaced with a boy-synth, and Nate had been lying to almost everyone. What else could go wrong in this world of rust and ruin?

            She managed to keep it together while the negotiations were going on, Proctor Teagan proving to be as sharp and sleazy as any supply sergeant she’d ever known, and Preston holding his own against Maxson. It was obvious that dealing with someone as an equal was a foreign concept to the Elder of the Brotherhood while the General needed to learn not to defer to anyone with authority now he was a leader. Another time, another life, she might have enjoyed watching the two men grow as commanders.

            Now she was giving herself a quick wash in the Castle’s bathroom, which was essentially three sinks and one shower, and blinking back the tears. Maxson obviously believed she was holding back information about the cybernetics programme and her mother’s history. Paladin Danse seemed sympathetic but was constrained by his orders. The Minutemen didn’t care because she’d worked with them.

            Sparrow was heartily sick of being shoved around but she didn’t have a damn clue on how to stop it without coming across as manipulative or dangerous. The only thing she’d ever wanted was _peace._

 _What are you doing, Nate?_ Sparrow wondered as she rinsed out her hair. The Brotherhood officers were being feted at the Castle tonight and that meant wearing the best dress she’d found, playing hostess and fielding questions she really didn’t want to answer.

            Boots echoed against concrete and crumbling brick as someone headed for the outhouse next door. Sturges’ mechanical genius extended to some kind of system that purified the waste for use as fertiliser, though when he’d tried to explain it, Sparrow had firmly said she didn’t want to know. She was good at not wanting to know things but now, she really did.

            The Nate she recalled had been a basically decent man. A little condescending to her, which was understanding because the last time Sparrow had her shit together was at college just before the accident, but unfailingly patient and compassionate with her. She thought she loved him as much as she could, caught up with her own weaknesses as she was, and tried to be the best wife possible.

            The Nate that the Brotherhood spoke of was pragmatic to the point of ruthlessness, a user and abuser who abandoned those who had no use in his world. Maxson, someone who bordered on being a fanatic, thought he went too far during a mission at times. The survivors of Bunker Hill spoke of the soldier in power armour who slammed through the walls and chaos without concern for anyone in the way. The people of Goodneighbour murmured about the man who betrayed his employer and executed her without remorse. The three-issue interview Publick Occurrences published – View from the Vault – painted a very unflattering picture of her husband from his own words.

            Sparrow wasn’t sure which Nate was the real one and that doubt was the final boot in the ribs.

            _All I can do is share what information about the Institute and the Enclave I know,_ she decided. _And help rebuild the Minutemen._

She wrung her hair out; it could be combed dry when she was dressed. It was hard to go through the motions when her world was in upheaval. Yet Sparrow had made a promise to Nate and Shaun that she wouldn’t seek oblivion in chems and her own pride forbade looking for refuge in alcohol.

            Shaun might be gone and Nate not the man she thought he was, but a Killian kept the vows she made.

            Of one thing Sparrow was certain – wilful ignorance was no longer an option. Whatever she did had to be done with a clear understanding of what was going on.

            The outhouse flushed and boots sounded once again, coming closer to the bathroom to no doubt wash hands. Sparrow reached for the pink dress that she’d be wearing, a vestige of pre-War modesty spurring haste, but the person had a longer stride than she realised because the door opened just as her hand touched cotton.

            A deep grunt informed her that the individual was male and Sparrow reminded herself that in the Wasteland, modesty was a luxury, as she unbuttoned the dress. Underwear could happen in the little alcove, curtained off, that served as her bedroom. Being an officer had _some_ perks, even in the Minutemen.

            She kept her back to the door. No need to make things even more awkward than they were by learning the identity of her accidental voyeur, though surely he should have retreated by now, or stepped forward to wash his hands at one of the basins. His gaze was a palpable heat on her body as she shrugged on the cotton dress and buttoned it up.

            Sparrow was tempted to ask if he liked what he saw. It couldn’t be one of the Minutemen because while they didn’t respect Nate, they certainly respected her marriage to him and treated her as one of the family. The Brotherhood – Maxson, Danse and even Teagan – reminded her of the Army boys she’d known in college – oftentimes in the Biblical sense, which made for an entertaining confession every Sunday to the priest at St. Brigid’s in Concord. Big, muscular and handsome in the military style, even if a couple of them looked uglier than a Brahmin’s backside.

            For the first time in forever, Sparrow found herself biting her bottom lip in desire. The last time she’d had sex was shortly after her marriage to Nate, the day Shaun was conceived at the park when both of them were feeling okay. Whatever spark between them was guttering by the time he was honourably discharged and she had to wonder if they’d have eventually divorced or whether she’d wear the façade of a good Catholic wife while he fucked anonymous women in the bars. Elisabeth Killian had made it abundantly clear that expecting fidelity from a soldier spouse was a bit like expecting it to rain whiskey – not bloody likely.

            The final button was done up and slanting her gaze to the side in an attempt to avoid awkwardness – and preserve the anonymity of her watcher – Sparrow grabbed her comb and headed for the door. There was no need to let on that the accidental voyeurism had been arousing, especially when the Brotherhood mistrusted her.

            The sound of a tap being turned on reached her ears just as she touched the door, a flash of orange confirming it was one of the Brotherhood. Another reason for not trying to find out who it was – these men were Nate’s brothers in arms, even if they didn’t much trust him, and she couldn’t ruin that for her husband.

            Despite everything going to hell, Sparrow felt a little better as she headed for her bedroom. Someone still found her attractive and that made her steps a bit lighter, her back a touch straighter.

            Maybe there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

…

Dinner was held between makeshift braziers of steel barrels filled with coals, the edge of the early spring chill was taken off. Sparrow was ensconced between Preston and Ronnie and across from Maxson and Danse. Sturges was on the other side of Preston and a tall, lean man named Proctor Quinlan replaced Senior Scribe Neriah, who had returned to the Prydwen with Proctor Teagan, whose replacement happened to be a legless redhead confined to a power frame called Proctor Ingram. Much to Sparrow’s relief, Quinlan’s interest in her was academic and Ingram appeared to be giving her the benefit of the doubt. Not all the Brotherhood was as… _intense_ … as Maxson and Danse, it seemed.

            The tables were narrow but groaning with the Minutemen’s version of a feast. Quinlan and Ingram had brought a few bottles of alcohol and a cask of mutfruit wine. At the officers’ table, they’d plonked down a few familiar bottles of whiskey and bourbon between the platter of Brahmin steaks and pot of radstag stew. Sparrow never would have thought the mid-quality moonshine the cousins down in Quincy distilled would be considered officers’ rations in the Brotherhood.

            “Did you strip my liquor collection entirely bare?” Maxson asked dryly of Ingram.

            “No,” the Proctor answered huffily. “We found these in a cache just outside of Quincy.”

            “Marked with a heraldic lion surrounded by three four-leafed clovers?” Sparrow asked.

            “Yes!” Ingram answered, looking at the pre-War survivor in surprise.

            “That was the crest of the Boston Killians – my father’s family,” she explained. “The cousins down at Quincy would have cached that for transport down to Washington – the Capital Wasteland. BADTFL liked to control the flow of alcohol for some reason.”

            “Enclave on one side, moonshiner on the other,” Maxson noted dryly. “You have quite the interesting family history.”

            Sparrow regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “The American Irish crime clans were nobility of a sort. My father could trace his ancestry back two hundred years and more to An Gorta Mór, the Great Famine of Ireland. Nate’s family, the New York Finlays, had been smuggling since the American Civil War.”

            “There were Killians down in Quincy in Mama Murphy’s time, but they all left or died out,” Sturges observed. “They were still makin’ bourbon and razorgrain whiskey.”

            “It’s one of those skills that can survive a nuclear war,” Sparrow said with a sigh, deliberately helping herself to a steak to end the conversation.

            Taking the hint, Sturges struck up a discussion with Proctor Ingram – who was the chief engineer on the Prydwen – about something so technologically complicated that Sparrow’s brain shut down from trying to understand it. She was slowly learning the art of modding weapons but the whys confused her. So she left the engineering to the experts and focused on logistics, something that she could do competently.

            In fact, she let the others talk as she calculated the new supply routes between the Airport, Bunker Hill and the Castle, with a stop-off at Goodneighbour. Shipments of circuitry and crystal were in high demand by the Brotherhood but cost a pretty cap while the Castle needed raw steel to bulk up its defences. Bunker Hill needed to rebuild thanks to the disastrous raid and Goodneighbour made more than just chems in their labs. If she extended the supply chain from Sanctuary, which could certainly spare the steel and wood, and had a scavenger team strip Concord and Lexington of anything that could be scrapped, clearing out the still-solid brick houses for future settlers-

            Sparrow grabbed the pen that was holding her bun in place and a notebook from her skirt’s pocket, sketching out a rough map of the northern Commonwealth with the planned supply lines, and let the others talk while she worked things out. Ingram wouldn’t have been out of place in the Minutemen and Ronnie certainly had the attention of Quinlan as she recounted stories of the Commonwealth’s many little conflicts. Preston and Maxson were discussing something in low voices as Danse ate his way through a pile of food that could feed two or three Minutemen, ending it with an entire box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes that he produced from a storage compartment in his power armour, which was parked right behind him.

            “General, Elder?” Sparrow raised her voice and the two men looked in her direction. “Is this a suitable supply line?”

            She slid the page after tearing it from the notebook over to them and the military commanders began to pore over the admittedly tiny scrap of paper. Preston was used to her maps but Maxson was squinting for a bit until the General explained the shorthand that she used. Soon they were nodding and talking about trading raw steel, which the Brotherhood had plenty of, in return for crystal and circuitry. Of course, food and other necessities would be traded, but that would involve caps instead of the mass bartering of raw materials that today’s discussions decided upon.

            “In the Commonwealth, caravans often deal in shipments,” Preston explained. “The merchant will make a cache of raw materials somewhere – or store it in a secure location – and then sell so many pieces to someone else, who has a piece of paper with the merchant’s signature on it to prove that they’re entitled to so much.”

            “Bunker Hill’s popular for storing bulk goods,” Sparrow added. “Old Man Stockton… Hell.”

            “Sparrow?” Preston gave her a worried glance.

            “Someone needs to take over Stockton’s routes and fast. He was the biggest caravaner in the Commonwealth with at least four others – Trashcan Carla, Lucas Miller, Cricket and Doc Weathers – who answered to him.”

            “No reason you can’t do it?” Preston sounded genuinely curious. “Minutemen patrol along the trade routes anyway and since we need to ship the raw materials here and there somehow…”

            Maxson’s lips thinned. “Kessler’s indicated she prefers independents to handle shipping. I know – I made an offer to have Brotherhood escorts take over some of the southeastern routes in return for a generous discount on food and medicine.”

            “Minutemen are citizen soldiers,” Preston said softly. “Ronnie and I are fulltime personnel but Sturges has his workshop back in Sanctuary and there’s no reason why Sparrow can’t set herself up as a caravaner. Lord knows she has the instincts.”

            “I think Maxson’s trying to say monopolies are a bad thing,” Sparrow said. “Stockton had a monopoly on the entire northern Commonwealth and now it’s going to go to hell unless we find a couple civilians to take over the routes. The individual caravaners are competent in their areas of trade but none of them can really think on a broader scale except perhaps for Lucas, who’s the oldest.”

            “I was thinking more along the idea that the Minutemen’s quartermaster having sole control over the major caravan routes is concerning, but there’s that too,” Maxson observed dryly.

            Sparrow met his blue gaze. “Would you have any problem with it being anyone other than a Vault Dweller with a past that makes the Brotherhood nervous?”

            “Yes.” Maxson folded his beefy arms. “Both you and your husband have gained a lot of influence within a relatively short amount of time, Sparrow. I’ve seen it happen before – for some reason, Vault Dwellers have the ability to step into power vacuums that we didn’t even know existed.”

            She took a deep breath. “I assume you’re well-read?”

            “I have read many histories – Herodotus, Thucydides, even Sun Tzu’s _Art of War_.”

            “Worse things to read, but I suspect you focused on the works about the military.” Sparrow tilted her head at the Elder. “I was trained as a lawyer – someone who understood the million different regulations of the pre-War legal system – but before I entered college, I was learning logistics from my father and politics from my mother. Their marriage, though they loved each other, was as much arrangement as anything else – he had the underworld contacts and muscle, she had the political contacts and ‘name’ that got Killian goods into polite society. If Dad had survived his last tour of duty in Anchorage, he would have been teaching me how to handle the logistics of the black market while Nate took up the governmental wetwork.”

            She sighed. “Trade brings people together, Elder Maxson. Ask any of your logistics people. A settlement has too much food but needs steel while another settlement needs food but has an excess of steel, so I sit down the Mayors and help them work out an equitable arrangement. I’ve been applying the ‘influence’ I build by bringing more settlements under the Minutemen’s banner, which means more resources and citizen soldiers, which leads to safer trade routes because the Minutemen are going into dangerous places and clearing them out. This deal for crystal and circuitry we’ve worked out will lead to Concord and Lexington – two relatively intact towns rotten with Raiders and ghouls – being stripped clean and turned into somewhere people can live. That will give us two more spots for trade for nothing more than some ammo and a bit of work.”

            Quinlan nodded thoughtfully. “Like the New California Republic in the west, Elder Maxson.”

            “We came very close to forming our own government here,” Ronnie said softly. “Only that the Institute sent a synth which killed every other delegate.”

            Sparrow nodded to the old soldier. “Precisely. The Minutemen’s motto is ‘United We Stand’. Citizen soldiers threw the British out of America and if you can hold up your end of the ultimate bargain by removing the Institute as a threat, you’ll have a powerful ally to the north.”

            “In the Capital Wasteland, we provide protection in return for resources,” Maxson said after a moment of silence. “Not quite feudalism – Rivet City and the other settlements rule themselves without interference from us – but we have the final say on all matters when it comes to technology and military matters. Given it was the Brotherhood of Steel that created a source of clean water and destroyed the Enclave…”

            “The water is pumped freely throughout the Capital Wasteland,” Quinlan said hastily. “We just guard trade routes and remove threats like super mutants in return for a tithe of the crops that are grown from seeds we genetically modified in the first place.”

            “So in short, what you’re doing at Nordhagen and a few other settlements,” Preston observed after ‘aahing’ briefly.

            “Precisely. I won’t lie, we intend to set up a chapter here.” Maxson regarded Preston calmly.

            The General smiled thinly. “So have them send a representative to the Minutemen when we get that government up and running.”

            Maxson raised his eyebrows. “You’d invite us to join your government?”

            “Or even just have an ambassador if you didn’t want to join up. I suspect that you’re going to bridge the gap between here and the Capital Wasteland.” Preston’s own eyebrow raised at the flicker of surprise in Maxson’s face. “I can’t say you were the neighbours I’d have personally chosen, Elder Maxson, but you’re here and we need to learn how to work together. The Institute tried to break up the Commonwealth last time because divided people are scared people and therefore easy to manipulate. I’m of a mind to tell them to either step into the light and join the rest of us or go to hell, but either way, they won’t be treating us like science experiments anymore.”

            And just like that, Preston established himself and the Minutemen as equals to the Brotherhood of Steel, laid out his eventual goals, and informed anyone who might be eavesdropping that the Commonwealth was no longer frightened of the Institute.

            It had taken hours of talking between the four ranking officers, Sparrow applying her knowledge of law, logistics and politics to Preston’s idealism, Ronnie’s cynicism and Sturges’ realism.

            “We’ve already got Goodneighbour interested but Hancock wants to see how the fight against the Institute pans out,” Sparrow added quietly. “Bunker Hill – well, if we’d had the Commonwealth Provisional Government in place, a mess like Bunker Hill wouldn’t have happened. This is why I’m trying to keep the trade routes going and begin new ones – because trade brings prosperity, which brings leisure, which allows for education and all that makes civilisation happen. I’m not a General. But I know logistics and administration. And just because this world is an apocalyptic hellhole doesn’t mean it has to continue that way.”

            Maxson was silent for a long time. Then he nodded. “I may think you’re being woefully naïve but I’ve already agreed to not interfere in Minutemen territory. We have a mutual enemy and… well, Ms. Killian, I see you _do_ have an agenda, but it doesn’t seem like the one I feared. So we shall see how this alliance of convenience goes and while I still want those holotapes of your history, I will not consider you an enemy.”

            “I’m happy to share them,” Sparrow agreed softly. “I think… it will be like purging poison from a wound. My mother and father contributed to the end of the world. I think I’d like to make a new one.”

            She’d failed Shaun and couldn’t avenge him. But, if nothing else, she could make a world where children weren’t taken from their parents on and experimented on for vile purposes. And maybe she could stand on her own two feet, not as Killian’s daughter or Finlay’s wife but as Sparrow.


	7. Optimism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. Not sure which direction the romance is going – Danse or Maxson – I will accept suggestions in the comments.

“Did we win or lose with the Minutemen, Proctors?”

            Arthur Maxson raked back his undercut hair, noting that he needed to wash it, as Quinlan, Ingram and Teagan quietly nursed cups of hubflower tea and hangovers on the Prydwen after the trade talks. Like the northern Irish clans of the Capital Wasteland, the Commonwealth was big on celebrating with copious amounts of alcohol and food, and the Brotherhood had welcomed the chance to release some of the tension of being in unfamiliar territory. They were all paying for it today, of course, but when the Minutemen graciously divided half the leftovers as a welcoming gift and sent enough food to feed the Prydwen for a day… It was worth it.

            “That depends on interpretation,” Quinlan finally said. Ascetic and devoted to his cat, the Proctor of the Order of the Quill rarely indulged in alcohol – but the Killian bourbon went so well with radstag stew that he had a few too many drinks. Whoever the Minutemen’s cook was, the person was a genius.

            _They could give Mess-Sergeant Tuckey a few lessons…_ Arthur mused as he sipped his faintly sweet tea. “Oh?”

            “The West Coast Elders would believe you capitulated too much, too soon,” the scholar said slowly.

            Arthur regarded him with half-lidded eyes. “The West Coast Elders didn’t have to deal with an organised military organisation that had missile launchers, Fat Men and anti-aircraft artillery.”

            “Exactly,” Ingram agreed. She kept on threatening to kidnap Sturges and make him her Senior Scribe, while the Minutemen’s technologist proposed to her twice. Arthur was fairly certain both were serious. “The Capital Wasteland’s people were already used to being ruled by the Brotherhood of Steel thanks to the Lyons, so protecting them in return for supplies made sense. The Commonwealth is less devastated from the bombs, has a strong sense of independence, and it’s only the Institute – a mutual enemy – that’s stopped the Minutemen from uniting them.”

            “That was a clever trick, trading synth-scanners for the ingredients of that coolant you need for the Prydwen,” Teagan said admiringly to the Proctor of the Order of the Shield.

            “Thanks. If we’re lucky and a few synths go haywire in their settlements, the Minutemen will be a bit more on board with the danger Gen-3s pose,” Ingram replied mildly. “General Garvey’s idealistic, not stupid.”

            Teagan got a sly glint in his eyes and Maxson gave him a pointed glare. “No,” he said firmly.

            “But-“

            “The Minutemen have, according to our intelligence, been entirely above board with us and we will treat them with the same courtesy,” Arthur interrupted. “No putting anything in the synth-scanners to screw with Gen-3 programming.”

            “Sturges would figure it out after the first time,” Ingram added. “That man may not be a scientist like Quinlan or understand the theory behind what he makes but damn if he isn’t ferociously intelligent. It’s a lack of education that stops him from matching the Institute, not lack of ability.”

            “No poaching high-ranking members of the Minutemen,” Arthur told her firmly.

            “What about seducing him?” Ingram asked with a twinkle in her eye.

            The Elder chuckled softly. “Better have a replacement for Garvey.”

            Danse wandered into the meeting room, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry for being late,” he apologised.

            “After the amount we drank last night, Paladin, we’re all a bit hungover,” Teagan assured him. “What’s your opinion on the agreements with the Minutemen?”

            “A damn good idea from a Wastelander’s perspective,” Danse answered softly as he took a seat, accepting a cup of tea from Quinlan.

            “And as a Paladin’s?” Arthur wanted to know what his most loyal soldier thought.

            “Almost as good an idea. The Minutemen are competent and honest.” Danse sipped his tea. “Not to mention optimistic almost to the point of insanity.”

            The Elder nodded in agreement. “They’re not naïve by any means but… they’re hopeful. That’s a commodity rarer than pure water in the Wasteland.”

            “Yeah…” Danse had some more tea. “It’s funny how Vault Dwellers react to the Wasteland. Some give in to the despair, cynicism and selfishness while others look at it with hope and want to make it a better place.”

            “And others choose isolation,” Teagan noted. “Vault 81 is still uncommunicative.”

            “Let the Minutemen know about them. Outsiders known for confiscating technology and militancy might make them nervous.” And before the Minutemen, Arthur never would have considered that in his dealings with others.

            “We’re talking to the Minutemen?” Knight-Lieutenant Finlay’s voice almost startled Maxson; how long had he been listening to the conversation?

            Arthur looked over his shoulder at the tall, broad-shouldered soldier. As always, he was clean and well-presented, his teeth eerily white against that tanned skin. There was something about Finlay that always seemed a little off – perhaps it was Arthur’s knowledge of the man’s lies and double-dealings or discomfort that he always insisted on being better kempt than the fussiest Scribe when clean water and soap were limited commodities.

            “We have reached an agreement, yes,” the Elder confirmed. “Trade and mutual cooperation against the Institute to begin with.”

            “Garvey managed to get himself out of the hole he dug himself into. Impressive.” Finlay folded his arms and leaned against the doorway.

            “I should give you fair warning that you should avoid Minutemen settlements,” Arthur said grimly. Finlay was being too casual with the highest-ranking commanders in the Brotherhood. “Garvey and Sturges hold a grudge against you.”

            “They can build a bridge and get over it,” Finlay retorted. How was it that the man could be so bitter against the world and his wife…? Well, Arthur could read the Minutemen like a book and Sparrow Killian was sincere in her desire to rebuild the Commonwealth.

            That was how he’d readily agreed to so much. Preston Garvey treated everyone like equals and expected the same courtesy in return. It was like Jamie, the Lone Wanderer, but someone who’d lived in the horrors of the Wasteland.

            Arthur had never been treated as ‘just’ anyone else. Even Danse deferred to him. It was refreshing.

            _“Sir,”_ Danse added pointedly. “You seem to have forgotten a salute as well, Knight-Lieutenant. You may be on bereavement leave but while you’re in Brotherhood territory, you’ll act accordingly.”

            Finlay’s green-hazel eyes hardened. “You remind me of my first commander, _Paladin._ He was a stickler for protocol. It got him killed one day.”

            “There is a time to discard protocol and a time to follow it, soldier,” Danse countered. “Much can be forgiven for your grief. But not everything.”

            “The Minutemen will just fall apart again,” Finlay said, ignoring his sponsor. “How’s the fight against the Institute going, Elder?”

            Arthur regarded him flatly. “Not for anyone under the rank of Paladin to know, Knight-Lieutenant Finlay. Follow orders and trust your commanders.”

            “Seeing as you wouldn’t have a lead without me, I think I’m entitled to a few details,” Finlay countered.

            “You’ve already received more leeway than most soldiers under my command,” Arthur warned. “I am not blind to what you have done or the skills you possess, Finlay. But loyalty must be matched with loyalty and trust with trust. I expect the same devotion to the Brotherhood’s cause from all my soldiers.”

            The Vault Dweller’s lips tightened. “Are you implying I’m not properly devoted to your order?”

            “Word spreads in the Commonwealth, even faster than it does in the Capital Wasteland,” Teagan noted. “The Minutemen aren’t shy about their opinion of you and the reports from Diamond City of you tricking a gate guard into giving you caps and of working with a known Goodneighbour criminal – a ghoul no less! – have reached us.”

            “This from the guy who wanted me to lean on farmers for extra supplies,” Finlay countered. “That’s really fucking rich of you, Proctor.”

            Arthur had to grant Finlay that point. The man came from a ‘crime clan’, as Sparrow had explained; smuggling and extortion were probably everyday activities to him. “The fact remains that you’re not in a crime clan or black ops team anymore,” the Elder informed the pre-War survivor. “You could be a Paladin and command your own squad by next winter, Finlay. But before you give orders in the Brotherhood, you must obey them – even _I_ started out as a Squire and while my bloodline expedited my rising in the ranks, I still had to prove myself every time. The Brotherhood takes care of its own but you need to return that loyalty with courage, honour and decency. Your son is dead and I feel your grief as one who has lost-“

            “What would you know?” Finlay hissed. “What _do_ you know?”

            Maxson met those green-hazel eyes. “I lost my parents, foster parents and several friends by the age of thirteen,” he said softly. “I am the last of my family… as are you.”

            He wanted to save Finlay. There was a good soldier despite the ruthlessness. The man deserved to know that his wife had adapted to the Commonwealth amazingly well, because Arthur suspected that some of his questionable activities came from having no hope at all.

            But he could very well just be the manipulative, lying hired gun that the Commonwealth saw him as.

            “You only answered one of my questions, Maxson.”

            “As for how I know about the crime clan and black ops, the fortress we call the Citadel is what you called the Pentagon,” Arthur explained, neatly sidestepping the fact that Sparrow had shared some of this information. “Extensive records there and once you joined up, I had them brought up here.”

            Finlay clenched his fists and took a deep breath, the colour leaving his handsome, battle-worn face. “I apologise for my actions,” he said flatly. “I’m used to being treated like scum, sir, so… I have issues with military authority figures like Danse.”

            “If you have a problem with Danse, I can assign you to another squad,” Arthur offered. He could see how the prickly Paladin could offend the equally prickly Finlay.

            “I would prefer to work alone-“

            “Negative. Brotherhood soldiers _never_ stand alone.” Arthur looked at him grimly. “I think I’ll turn you over to Knight-Captain Cora and Team Apollo. They’re our equivalent of frontline Special Forces saved for the most extreme missions.”

            _And if you are a traitor, Cora will have no difficulty in executing you,_ Arthur thought grimly. His command staff had passed the synth-scanner test. Finlay too, for that matter.

            _The Institute has to have civilian informants. They can’t possibly have thousands of synths, could they?_ It was a terrifying thought either way. One thing that ruled in favour of Finlay not being a traitor was that there was no way a man who held grudges like he did would work with the organisation that murdered his son.

            Finlay’s jaw tightened but he nodded. “Very well, sir.”

            “Take the next three weeks off,” Arthur advised as he sipped his tea and grimaced, realising it had gone cold. Hubflower tea wasn’t pleasant-tasting chilled. “I will brief you on your mission when you return.”

            “Very well, Elder.” Finlay saluted and turned away without a farewell.

            “I hope you know what you’re doing with that man,” Ingram said quietly.

            “So do I, Proctor,” Arthur sighed. “So do I.”

            If only he could be as certain of Finlay’s loyalty as he was of the Minutemen’s honesty.

            “Get those synth-scanners to the civilian settlements double-time,” he commanded. “I wouldn’t put it past the Institute to dress a few Gen-3s in Minutemen or Brotherhood uniforms and perform a massacre or two to break the agreement.”

            “…You think _Finlay’s_ an Institute plant?” Quinlan’s long jaw dropped in shock.

            “He’s not a synth. And the Institute killed his son.” Ingram looked perplexed.

            “I… Sorry, my mind went in the direction of the Minutemen and how the Institute could ruin our new alliance,” Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think Finlay’s out for himself though. There’s a good soldier beneath the surliness. I’d like to try and save him.”

            “Looks like some of Garvey’s optimism rubbed off on you,” Danse muttered in a rare show of sarcasm. “Elder, that’s the second time he’s tried for solo duty despite knowing that Brotherhood soldiers never work alone.”

            “I noticed.” Arthur regarded his friend with a wry smile. “If anyone can bring him into line, it’s Cora.”

            He looked blindly into the distance. “And if anyone can handle the Railroad and its renegade synths, it’s Team Apollo.”

            “I hope you’re right on both counts, Elder,” Teagan said dubiously. “Or we’re screwed six ways to Sunday.”


	8. Eggs and Cats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism, and mentions of child abuse and domestic violence. Two chapters today because muse is finally cooperating! I also apologise for butchering the Atom Cats’ slang.

“Self-righteous fucking sacks of fucking shit…”

            Shaun set aside the test results from Dr Volkert and regarded his father with wry fondness. “I see you enjoyed the meeting with the Brotherhood of Steel,” he said dryly.

            Nate visibly wrangled his temper into submission. Since being named as the future Director, the soldier was trying to present himself as thoughtful and thorough in order to impress the directorate. That he’d thrown himself into proper hygiene had reassured several ranking members of the Institute; Nate wasn’t stupid by any means and Shaun noticed that he _enjoyed_ being clean. “Sorry, son. They held my actions in getting to you against me. That self-righteous shit Danse’s been working on Maxson despite me taking him out of combat.”

            “Enough reason for the Paladin to hold a grudge.” The Brotherhood, aside from their military superiority and advanced technology, were far too canny for Shaun’s comfort. He disliked this cloak and dagger business, asking so much of his father, but he couldn’t rest easy until the Prydwen was blown across the sky.

            “Danse is a tight-ass,” Nate said sourly. “Hypocrisy offends me personally. If they want to admit they’re here to conquer the Commonwealth, I’d be less pissed. But they’ve gone and made an alliance with the Minutemen.”

            “Preston Garvey was more competent than expected,” Shaun observed.

            “And he’s been dragging my name through the mud despite me taking the heat off him enough that he and his friends could escape.” Nate grabbed a can of purified water and drank it dry. “I was warned not to go into Minutemen settlements.”

            “TC-01 reported that they control the northwest from Vault 111 to Hangman’s Alley now,” Shaun confirmed calmly.

            Nate paused, lowering the empty can. “Could they have found your mother?”

            “I… have not considered that possibility.” It galled Shaun to admit that, even to his non-judgmental father. “TC-01 has said nothing of this though.”

            “She has to move around to avoid suspicion.” Nate grimaced. “You’d better send X6-88 there to make sure.”

            “Hmm… Do you think it’s time to wake Mother up?” Shaun would like to know the brilliant, fragile woman that birthed him. In the Institute, she could be safe.

            “I… Yes, of course.” Nate rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Shaun. I’m in a particular mindset of ‘remove potential witnesses’ at the moment. Thanks for reminding me that she’s still my wife.”

            “How… could you forget?” Shaun was trying not to be judgmental but to instead understand his parents.

            “Because I never appreciated how much I enjoyed being able to rely on competent support and not having responsibility for a wreck,” Nate admitted with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Shaun. Your mother and I got married because I owed old Killian and his wife one for my leg. That I got to live in a nice house with all the mod cons was a bonus.”

            “Did you care for her?” In the Institute, marriages could be either arranged for practical, emotional or procreative purposes, so Nate’s admission didn’t bother Shaun overmuch.

            “I did, as much as I could. A man takes care of his wife.”

            “I meant do you feel affection for her?”

            “In my way. Honestly, I think once her mother died, we would have divorced.” Nate sighed again. “I would have won custody of you, Shaun. Your mother left you to the robot butler to care for.”

            “Would we have gotten the robot butler at least?” Shaun supposed he should feel some distant affection for the Mr Handy.

            “Probably not. He was programmed to serve your mother primarily.” Nate wrinkled his nose.

            “I see.” Shaun sighed. He’d liked the idea of his mother loving him but it seemed that she preferred not to deal with him.

            “I think she cared as much as she could. The car crash rattled her brains and turned her fragile.”

            “Ah. That’s… better than I feared.” Shaun took a deep breath. “I think I’ll treat her like a colleague. We need her as much as you, Father, only in different ways.”

            Nate nodded. “I understand. I’m sorry if it seems cold but… neither of us were really good for each other. We tried, we really did, but it was only our fear of your grandmother, who knew a lot of people, that kept us married.”

            “No, it makes a lot of sense.” Shaun managed a smile. “You needn’t consider yourself married here, Father.”

            “Thank fuck for that. Once your mother’s safe, I’ll have done my duty to her.” Nate’s broad shoulders shrugged. “She’ll be relieved. No more headaches when I’m in the mood.”

            Shaun laughed politely at the pre-War joke even if he didn’t particularly get it.

            His father walked over and wrapped a thick arm around Shaun’s thin shoulders. “I won’t let your dream die, son,” he promised. “The Wasteland’s a shithole and full of hypocrites who don’t much like me acting like them.”

            “Thank you, Father,” Shaun breathed, happy to lay his burden on younger, stronger shoulders. “The world will be a better place without the Brotherhood of Steel and the Railroad.”

            “And the Minutemen, if the alliance is a strong one,” Nate said grimly. “If Preston’s people are feeding the Brotherhood…”

            “I’ll take care of it,” Shaun promised. “Or rather, X6 will on the way to getting your mother.”

            Those Brotherhood corpses they found in Malden would be useful. After all, when making an omelette, sometimes you had to break some eggs.

…

“Zeke, one of them Brotherhood soldiers is at Warwick Homestead!”

            Now, the leader of the Atom Cats didn’t have much time for squares like the Brotherhood of Steel, but even he had to admit they had a sweet airship and gorgeous, if rather drab power armour. The Minutemen also trusted them, which was pretty good after Preston Garvey saved their old friend Sturges – coolest Cat outside of the Cats – from the Gunners.

            The greaser approached the chain-link fence where Duke stood. “Didn’t know they came in via cool lightshow,” the power-armoured Cat observed. “I mean, not there one moment and ‘Bzzt’, there the next.”

            Zeke frowned. “I thought they used vertibirds.”

            “Maybe they wanted something cooler- What the _hell_?”

            The Atom Cats watched in horror as Roger’s head was crushed like a grape by the sepia-toned man in Brotherhood orange. Then Duke punched his fists together. “Fuck that. We let the Gunners take over Quincy. We ain’t gonna let the Brotherhood wipe out the Warwicks.”

            His leader nodded as headed for his power armour. Within a minute, everyone who could be spared was suited up and heading for Warwick Farmstead.

            Power armour, especially painted like the Atom Cats’ sets, wasn’t subtle – but then, with a jet pack courtesy of Sturges, Zeke didn’t _need_ subtle. He zoomed into the air as the Brotherhood scum looked up from behind mirrored shades – like he was trying to be cool or something – and took his attention from June and the kids. He was also ignoring Duke and Rowdy as they pounded towards him, ready to take him out.

            The Brotherhood soldier pulled out a gun and fired blue laser fire. That was weird. Everyone knew that the Brotherhood squares preferred red.

            Zeke cut his jet pack a hundred feet in the air and let himself drop to the ground as the bastard moved faster than a human should. That was when the cap dropped.

            _He’s a fucking synth!_ Zeke had no problems with synths unless they were trying to kill people, like this guy was. Killing a Minutemen settlement in a Brotherhood uniform? Pretty obvious what he was trying.

            Surrounded by three Cats in power armour, the synth didn’t look worried. “This is Brotherhood business. Leave now.”

            “Go tell your people-snatching bosses to leave the Commonwealth alone,” Duke advised darkly.

            “Regrettable. I will have to kill you and your friends.” Within a heartbeat he was moving for Rowdy, who was only armed with a pipe pistol. The most vulnerable of the Cats other than Roxy-

            Zeke heard the whistling just before everyone did and hotfooted it away from the synth. Rowdy reached out and grabbed the bastard, pulling him up as a shield against the mini nuke one of the Cats had launched.

            It struck in a mushroom cloud of fiery gold that faded to black smoke as it rose to the sky. He looked behind him in fear and gasped – the synth was charred but still twitching, hand clamped around Rowdy’s helmet, trying to pull it off.

            Duke swore and fired his mini gun into the thing’s back. It took a lot of bullets before he was dead.

            “Rowdy, you good?” Zeke asked worriedly. Her armour was scorched and-

            “Yeah,” she said weakly. “Need lots of RadAway.”

            “Roger!” June came out from behind the mutfruit tree to kneel by her husband’s corpse. Then she screamed in horror.

            Zeke looked down at the mess that had been Roger’s head. A white plastic thingy glinted beneath the brain and blood.

            He remembered that sour old drunk Roger yelling and beating his family. Then he got better all of a sudden. It made sense now.

            “June,” he said urgently. “Listen to me.”

            The woman looked up in tears. “What?”

            “That synth who replaced your husband? He was good enough to be a Cat. He died defending you and the kids.” It was the kindest thing he could say about someone. Maybe the Railroad was onto something when they said synths were people.

            Except that one tried to kill the Warwicks. Maybe because Roger ran away or ignored orders or something. Zeke didn’t know. But he knew who would.

            June cried harder as the kids came outside. “Janey,” Zeke told the daughter. “Go radio the Minutemen. The Institute sent a synth done up as a Brotherhood square to kill the synth that replaced your dad. But don’t say that on the radio.”

            Janey nodded, white with shock. Years of Roger being a prick had taught her to remain cool under pressure. Zeke wondered if she’d like to join the Atom Cats one day. They were neighbours after all.

            As she left, the Atom Cat looked back at his home to see Roxy coming up with the Fat Man on her shoulder, primed with a nuke. A long way from the scared girl who ran away from her family. “Good work, doll,” he told her. “Real good work.”

            Zeke then turned to Duke and patted his shoulder. “You too.”

            He and Duke picked up Rowdy, armour and all. “Janey, tell ‘em we got someone needin’ RadAway.”

            “Sure!” the girl yelled back. Wally was trying to comfort his mother. He was square but a good kid.

            “We got lucky,” Duke said sombrely. “Real lucky, Zeke.”

            The Atom Cats’ founder nodded. “I know. What are you thinkin’?”

            “I might join the Minutemen. Sturges is there and… well, I can’t be hip when squares are getting hurt.”

            Zeke nodded again. He was proud and sad all at once. “Preston Garvey’s a square but a good one.”

            Duke pulled off his helmet once Rowdy was on a table to be taken out of her armour to crack a rare smile. “Maybe I can teach them to be cool.”

            “Never happen. No one is as cool as the Atom Cats.”

            Both of them laughed and then sobered, looking at the injured Rowdy. “Why do they do this?” Duke asked, dropping the lingo. “We did nothing to them.”

            Zeke looked north. “I don’t know. But I think it’s about time we did something. Us, the Minutemen, even the Brotherhood.”

            Be damned if he was going to let some bastards ruin his home and family just because they liked making robot people.


	9. Little Victories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism, and mentions of war crimes, medical and scientific experimentation, and suicide.

“Thanks for coming.”

            Preston clasped hands with Arthur after he jumped off the vertibird that landed in the Castle’s courtyard, wishing that he could get a couple for the Minutemen. That sort of mobility would be amazing when it came to protecting and unifying the Commonwealth. But the alliance with the Brotherhood of Steel was still fragile, the bonds easy to break – as every faction in the region knew and already tried to exploit. If it hadn’t been for a few greasers in power armour-

            Maxson took one look at the Atom Cats’ souped-up suits, splashed boldly with flames and lightning bolts and their symbol of the cat crowned with a mushroom cloud, and blinked, the closest that the Elder would permit himself to showing shock. Then his eyes narrowed with professional interest and he strode over to greet Zeke and Duke, who were waiting on Rowdy getting treated for her radiation sickness. “T-51s?” he asked the two men.

            “Yeah. X-01s are powerful but top-heavy, like mechanised mirelurks, and not a cool look besides,” Zeke confirmed. “Sturges has a nice T-45 suit here he’s done up real sweet, but T-45s are for baby cats. T-60s are for squares like the Brotherhood.”

            Preston bit his lip in amusement. Given that most of the Brotherhood were muscular from a lifetime of good nutrition and wearing power armour, ‘square’ was definitely a good name for them, even if that wasn’t precisely what Zeke meant.

            “T-60s are the sweet spot for reliability, availability and durability,” Arthur answered with the grin of an enthusiast. “Since the US military made so many of them, they’re our choice of power armour.”

            “S’pose if you’re throwing them into battle the way you do, they’d be the best option. X-01s would tip a vertibird like a Brahmin.” Zeke was smiling despite the seriousness of the situation. “I’m Zeke and this is Duke. Rowdy’s getting treated for rad-fever by the Minutemen.”

            “Arthur Maxson, Elder of the Capital Wasteland chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel,” the commander replied, offering his hand.

            It would have taken a harder man than Zeke to resist Maxson’s admitted charisma. Preston was surprised to find himself _liking_ the man, whose entire life had been spent preparing for a leadership role in what had become a disorganised military force. Yes, he was an ass and could even be bigoted – but there was a damn fine person under the scowl and stress of a supreme commander.

            “Pleasure to meet you, Max. Or do you prefer Art?”

            Danse, who’d just disembarked from the vertibird, frowned but wisely said nothing. The man was a stickler for protocol, something Sparrow had noted would have made it difficult for her husband to tolerate.

            “Max. And the, ah, square behind me is Danse. But he prefers Paladin.”

            Zeke looked up at the absolutely huge soldier, whose Paladin armour was modded to be even bulkier than the regulation issue sets, and whistled. “You do them mods yourself, big guy?”

            “With some help from Proctor Ingram,” Danse replied gravely.

            “The Atom Cats agreed to join us after a recent attack on Warwick Homestead just outside of Quincy,” Preston said quietly. “Lieutenant Duke has decided to join the Minutemen fulltime.”

            “Until we crack some eggheads,” Duke said flatly.

            Arthur’s eyes narrowed as he nodded grimly. “We’ll take this to your office?”

            “Sure.” Preston turned for the small shed that served as his quarters and office. “Duke, join us?”

            “I’ll wait for Rowdy,” Zeke promised the Lieutenant, who inclined his head and fell in behind the other three men.

            Sparrow, prompt as always, was already in the corrugated-iron building with pre-War maps strewn on the eight-seater table, coloured toothpicks indicating the layout of the Commonwealth and the factions within. “The Institute’s been rather clumsy with this incident,” the pre-War survivor noted softly.

            “I don’t think they were counting on the Atom Cats being close enough to intervene,” Preston pointed out.

            “Possibly not. But this was the tackiest attempt at laying blame on someone I’ve seen since elementary school,” she observed disgustedly. “Whoever ordered this, black ops they aren’t.”

            “It’s the Institute and not the Railroad?” Maxson asked with a raised eyebrow.

            “The Railroad wouldn’t crush someone’s head like an overripe fruit, even if their focus is solely on rescuing synths,” Sparrow replied. “By the way, our synth-scanners are working perfectly. Thank you for that. We caught two saboteurs trying to disrupt supply lines, an infiltrator-synth, and three who’d been freed by the Railroad.”

            “We’ve got the two saboteurs in custody,” Preston added. “They’re refusing to cooperate.”

            Arthur turned to him. “What about the infiltrator-synth?”

            “Double agent. She wants to escape the Institute and…” Sparrow’s face was wry. “She’d become an important part of our northern supply route. Before you ask, ‘why is she still breathing’, understand that it’s better to have the devil you know than the one you don’t.”

            Maxson’s lips tightened. “The three who escaped the Institute?”

            “They were productive members of the settlements and one was a Minuteman.” Preston’s tone was firm, reminding Arthur of their agreement.

            The Elder looked dour and Danse was glowering like a radstorm but – wisely – both men nodded. “Understood. Best keep them out of our territory.”

            “Then you’ll have to bring everything you want me to fix up here,” Sturges drawled as he walked in with a battered, tattered synth in a trench coat and fedora. “Preston, Nick Valentine wants to come on as a consultant. He got his own beef with the Institute, as you know.”

            “Being literally thrown onto the scrap heap with a dead man’s memories generally does that to someone,” the synth detective drawled as he lit up a cigarette and puffed away. “Hello, Sparrow.”

            The slender woman had a big grin on her face, one of the few Preston had ever seen. “Hello, Uncle Nick.”

            Maxson pinched the bridge of his nose. “Explanation… please?”

            “Nick Valentine was a half-Italian, half-Irish BADTFL detective who was dying of lung cancer shortly before the bombs fell,” Sparrow said softly. “My father and he were good friends, so when Nick expressed despair at not catching the bastard who shot his fiancée in the back – ignoring all the crime clan conventions – my mother arranged for his memories to be scanned by the scientists who created my eye and Nate’s leg.”

            “I remember falling asleep in the chair and waking up on a scrap heap,” Nick agreed softly. “Was found by a kid who brought me into a settlement. I soon took up wandering after that until the previous Mayor of Diamond City’s daughter was kidnapped. Tracked the bastards, rescued her and wound up opening a detective agency in the great green jewel itself.”

            “We think Nick’s a prototype between Gen-2s and Gen-3s,” Preston said gently. He knew how hard this would be for Maxson to accept. “He’s done nothing but good since coming to Diamond City – he even helped Nate.”

            “Only because Finlay saved me from a tight spot. If I ran into him again after working with Bobbi No-Nose, I might just give him a couple bullets for breakfast.” Nick’s normally dry tones were flat with anger.

            “Get in line,” Danse suggested just as flatly. “Elder…”

            “Valentine’s obviously a virtual intelligence following his programming,” Maxson finally said. “Like a more sophisticated Mr Handy.”

            Nick looked ready to argue the point until Sparrow arched her eyebrows significantly. The synth detective settled for glaring flatly at the Brotherhood soldiers with those eerie yellow eyes.

            “As for Sturges, I will defer to the agreement we had on one condition.” Maxson looked pointedly at Preston. “I get the saboteurs and the infiltrator once she’s no longer useful.”

            “I think the infiltrator’s sincere,” Sparrow said softly. “But you can have the dead Courser and Roger Warwick’s synth components.”

            Danse met her eyes. “Their corpses.”

            “The Courser’s corpse and Warwick’s synth component. The rest of him was buried because he died defending his family.” Sparrow looked significantly at Preston.

            “And a Brotherhood officer present when we question the saboteurs,” the General added. “If they die, you’ll get their corpses too.”

            “I’ll take it,” Maxson agreed. “We’ll share the information we get from their chips if it pertains to the Minutemen.”

            “I can hack Institute architecture,” Nick offered. “What I can’t do, Dr Amari can. She’s the one who took Nate for a stroll through Kellogg’s memory chip with me as the vehicle.”

            “We know of Dr Amari,” Arthur said flatly.

            “Goodneighbour’s signed up with the Minutemen,” Preston said gently. “Hancock’s Neighbourhood Watch is a hell of a force in that part of the Boston ruins.”

            “We agree to your terms, Elder,” Sparrow said quietly. “If it wasn’t for your scanners, we wouldn’t have known about the saboteurs or the infiltrator.”

            Preston flashed a glance at the quartermaster, who was unrepentant. “We’ve wrangled a fair bit out of the Brotherhood, General. It’s time that we bent a little to respect their ways,” she said. “Besides, the other option is to shoot the saboteurs in the head and give the corpses to them – which is still on the table.”

            The General flushed. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I…”

            “You’re a good man who sees the best in everything,” Danse said quietly. “It’s your greatest strength and weakness that you want to save everyone, even when you shouldn’t.”

            “Whereas I must see the worst in everything,” Arthur said. “Flesh is flesh and steel is steel – the two were never meant to entwine-“

            “The Brotherhood uses cybernetics, yes? Star Paladin Cross?” Sparrow interrupted coolly.

            “I… Yes.” Maxson regarded her starkly. “Cybernetic enhancements are permitted within tight limits – Finlay’s leg falls under them easily while your eye is on the edge of what’s allowable. Star Paladin Cross was also a special case as our only experienced large scale commander at the time.”

            “Nate’s leg is connected to his nervous system and my eye is hooked up to the part of my brain which governs sight,” Sparrow said quietly. “Blind hatred – othering people who are just a little bit different to you – is how wars are justified, Elder Maxson. Chinese people were thrown into internment camps, even though a good many families had been in the United States for two, even three centuries. I suspect that many of the experiments that led to the FEV, the Institute and other horrors were performed on people whose only crime was to be outside what was deemed acceptable.”

            “The Chinese committed as many atrocities,” Danse pointed out gruffly.

            “They did. The war over the last few oilfields on Earth justified many, many horrific things.” Sparrow’s eyes were haunted. “I’m not asking you to invite Gen-3s into your Brotherhood. I’m… just asking you to think on what sort of world you want to build, Elder, and whether the price is worth it.”

            “Brotherhood doctrine is clear,” Arthur told her with less anger than Preston expected. “Also, an infiltrator-synth killed Elder Sarah Lyons, my foster sister, and a super mutant killed Danse’s best friend Knight Cutler.”

            Preston winced. “Hell, we didn’t know that, Arthur.”

            “I didn’t expect you to. As I said, I’ll respect your territory and your officers. I’m glad to know you’ll cede any Gen-3 corpses to us – that willingness to be pragmatic will make this alliance more palatable to the other Elders.” Arthur sighed and tugged at his undercut hair. “I dream of a world where people like you, Preston, won’t have to pick up a gun because of some scientific monstrosity coming out of nowhere.”

            Preston regarded his fellow commander sadly. “I dream of a world where a ten-year-old doesn’t have to learn how to stab a man in the kidneys.”

            “Then we both have mutual goals.” Arthur’s smile was a little exhausted and Preston wondered how much he had on his shoulders, even with an army of people to support him. “Perhaps when the Institute is destroyed, I can be a little more… lenient. But Gen-3s have been used as saboteurs and infiltrators, so I must treat every synth who isn’t officially a Minuteman as the enemy.”

            Preston inclined his head in acknowledgement of Maxson’s stance. “I hadn’t considered that.”

            Sparrow was looking thoughtful. Preston knew that she was trying to find someone to take over Old Man Stockton’s routes – or who could be trusted with the Minutemen’s logistics.

            “That’s real simple,” Duke observed. “Make the synths Minutemen. They fight harder and faster than most of us and if they want to be free of the eggheads, they should be willing to fight for it.”

            Sturges leaned against the wall. “Good idea, Duke. But they’d need to be trustworthy.”

            “Another thing to consider with that route is the Railroad sneaking agents into our ranks that way,” Sparrow pointed out. “I’ve tried contacting them but they’re proving elusive. I suspect that they don’t trust our alliance with the Brotherhood.”

            “The Railroad could cause a lot of damage,” Danse said flatly. “Wiping synth memories and replacing them with false ones is dangerous.”

            “Yeah,” Sturges agreed grimly. “Of the three who found out they was synths, one blew his brains out because he couldn’t stand it.”

            “He made the only human choice he could in the end,” Danse said softly with a hint of approval.

            Preston pushed himself from the table. “Duke, Rowdy should be out of surgery by now. We’ve got corpses to transfer and prisoners to question.”

            Maxson nodded approvingly and Duke gave a sloppy salute before leaving. “Let’s do it. I want answers.”

            Being a General wasn’t as heroic as Preston imagined it to be but, as he led the Brotherhood soldiers to the brig, he allowed himself a small smile. Never once had Danse or Arthur referred to the synths as ‘it’, which gave him hope they’d eventually see them as ‘true’ humans. A Minuteman took every little victory he could.


	10. Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism, and mentions of suicide.

Sparrow punched the grimy beige stone of the Castle’s nearest wall and allowed herself a stream of Irish Gaelic curses. The meeting with Maxson took more out of her than she expected; walking the fine line between the Brotherhood’s necessary pragmatism and he Minutemen’s equally necessary idealism was like tiptoeing across piano wire over a volcano. But this time, Preston had compromised and laid the seeds for Arthur to think of synths as human since neither he nor Danse dehumanised Sturges or Nick or even the saboteurs by calling them it.

            “You look like hell.” On cue, the synth detective appeared by her side, the fragrant smoke of his stale cigarette drifting out across the courtyard.

            “Mother always said diplomacy was rough but she wasn’t kidding,” Sparrow answered. “The Brotherhood and the Minutemen could do a lot of damage to each other, something which the Institute or the Railroad could use to their advantage.”

            “Your mother would have manipulated the situation for the benefit of the side she thought was most useful,” Nick noted. “I won’t say that everyone got what they wanted out of that meeting but if it keeps me out of the scrapyard and helping people, I’ll go with it.”

            “My mother… wasn’t a good person.” In return for the holotapes of her history, Proctor Quinlan had sent a few files on her mother. “Neither was my father. Yet I still love them both.”

            “Elisabeth and Frances were products of their time,” the synth pointed out. “But… no, they weren’t good people. They were still my friends though.”

            Sparrow smiled wryly at the robotic reincarnation of the only truly good man she’d ever known before the bombs fell. “Nothing is ever black and white.”

            “No. Even the rain pouring down in the twilight is a hundred different shades of grey.” Nick stubbed the end of his smoke on the wall. “Speaking of grey…”

            “I think it’s about time Nate and I had a long talk,” Sparrow said. “I want to know what happened to Shaun. I want to know what the hell is wrong with him.”

            She wanted to know if the man she thought she loved was still there.

            “You see the truth of a person in how they react to disaster,” Nick observed. “Nate was never a nice guy but he’s gone out of his way to screw people over in the Commonwealth. Some of that might have been forgivable while looking for Shaun. Now, I think he’s just doing it to be an asshole.”

            Sparrow rubbed her grazed hand. “You know something.”

            “I do.” Nick sighed. “At the Battle of Bunker Hill, the objective for everyone was to get their hands on four Gen-3 synths that Old Man Stockton was hiding – he was a Railroad ally. Maxson, I’ll grant, had paid Mayor Kessler a _generous_ sum to cover any, ah, issues from the Brotherhood raid – but someone warned the Railroad and they moved in a squad of twenty heavies with gauss rifles and mini-guns.”

            “And someone fed information to the Institute,” Sparrow added.

            “Yes. Three Coursers and an endless wave of Gen-1 and Gen-2 synths.” Nick made a hawking sound, the closest he could get to spitting. “The Coursers shot the Brotherhood vertibirds out of the sky while Railroad heavies pinned down Paladin Danse. Nate went ahead and breached the cellar where the synths were being held.”

            “Nate’s good, but he’s not a one man army,” Sparrow pointed out.

            “In power armour, he might as well be. Here’s the thing – Kessler hired me to figure out who was to blame in the cellar firefight, because _everyone_ bar the Coursers and the Gen-3 synths died.” Nick’s expression was grim. “Brotherhood, Railroad, some Gen-1 and Gen-2 synths.”

            Sparrow pushed herself up from the wall. “Nate didn’t die.”

            “No, he didn’t.”

            “Knight-Lieutenant Finlay’s a lot of things but he isn’t a synth, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Danse said, having stepped out of his power armour to use the outhouse, as he approached them.

            “True. A synth might be an improvement on him.” Nick’s voice was condemnatory. “Paladin, some of those Brotherhood soldiers were shot in the back with a laser rifle. The Institute ones are weaker, even when modded, than the regulation-issue Brotherhood ones – and this Brotherhood weapon was modded with a boosted gamma wave emitter. It leaves distinctive deep burning wounds, even in concrete.”

            Danse, to his credit, didn’t immediately shut Nick down. Maybe he hated Nate that much. “You can prove this?”

            “I imagine the marks are still there. No one is going to improve a storage basement.”

            “The flaw in your implication is that Finlay would willingly work for the faction that stole and murdered his son,” Danse said slowly.

            “We only have Finlay’s word on it and the Finlays _I_ recall would lie to their own mother for a fistful of caps.”

            Sparrow looked up at the big man. “You immediately believed it was Nate.”

            The Paladin’s smile was thin. “His favourite weapon is a laser rifle called Righteous Authority, modded with a boosted gamma wave emitter. I know, because I made the damn thing myself and gave it to him after he saved my life and that of Recon Squad Gladius.”

            “Incidentally, that weapon also killed Old Man Stockton,” Nick added softly. “When it reduces someone to ashes, it creates a distinctive fine grey-white ash.”

            “You know your weapons,” Danse conceded, obviously reluctant to compliment a synth.

            “I was BADTFL – Bureau of Alcohol, Drugs, Tobacco, Firearms and Lasers – before the bombs fell,” Nick replied. “Well, the real Nick was, but you get my point.”

            “I do.” Danse sighed and dragged his hand through thick, messy dark hair. “I’ll get Proctor Quinlan to send a Scribe to Bunker Hill to prove this on our end. Railroad personnel were acceptable targets in that mess-“

            “Did you know Old Man Stockton was a Railroad agent?” Sparrow interrupted.

            “…Actually, no. There wasn’t any orders given to kill him.”

            “Then whoever killed him knew he was Railroad.” Sparrow hugged herself. “I trust Nick’s judgment, but it’s a hell of a thing to consider that your husband’s working for the people who steal babies and send synths to slaughter civilians.”

            Danse fixed her with a harsh gaze. “Do you think that he’d do such a thing? You’re his wife. You must know him best.”

            “I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did,” Sparrow said bitterly. “I don’t know which is the real Nate – the one I married or the one who’s pissed off half the Commonwealth.”

            The Paladin lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry. I… have trouble comprehending why a good woman like you married scum like him.”

            “We’d been in the same boat and there were political reasons involved.” Sparrow sighed and looked over the courtyard. “We would have divorced eventually. Or I would have been the good little Catholic wife while he screwed women in bars. Mother told me never to expect fidelity from a soldier.”

            “Adultery in the Brotherhood is a punishable offence,” Danse growled. “The higher the rank, the harsher the punishment. If you can’t keep a promise to a spouse, how can you be trusted in a firefight?”

            Sparrow glanced away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

            “I know. Frankly, despite the horrors of our world, I have to wonder sometimes if the bombs falling wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.” Danse’s expression was more dour than usual. “For what it’s worth, Sparrow Killian, you have my respect for trying to make the Wasteland a better place.”

            “How could I not?” she asked softly. “I’m a lousy fighter and most of my skills are useless now. But I know logistics and the effect economics has on a society. I have to try and do _something_. Otherwise I should just crawl back into the Vault and die.”

            “I could make a pitch for you joining the Brotherhood but the Elder’s forbidden us from poaching senior Minutemen.” Danse’s smile was thin. “A good thing too or it might have gotten awkward with Sturges.”

            “Thank you – and your Elder – for being willing to work with Nick and Sturges,” Sparrow told him. “We need them.”

            “I know.” Danse sighed. “Just… please remember that Elder Maxson isn’t the only Elder out there and that we have to answer to doctrine in the end.”

            “I understand why you’re so harshly against the Institute.” Sparrow tried to smile at him. “I can even understand why you’re doing what you do. But as the survivor of one of those horrific science experiments, I feel for the synths who have been produced as – the infiltrator told me – slaves. Does that make sense?”

            “It does. But Sparrow-“ For a moment his eyes burned. “-You aren’t responsible for the old world and your shoulders are too narrow for its burdens. Carry your own sins, whatever they were, and leave your parents and Finlay’s issues to them.”

            He inclined his head gravely and turned away.

            “You know,” Nick observed after a moment, “the Brotherhood aren’t quite the assholes I thought they were.”

            “I know,” Sparrow agreed. “I know.”

…

Arthur was unusually agitated tonight. The Elder paced around the viewport, looking over his shoulder at Danse before staring out at the lighted expanse that was the Castle across the bay. The Paladin had delivered his report yet even before then, Maxson had been troubled. It worried the soldier to see his commander concerned and fidgety.

            Finally, Arthur stopped and turned around. “According to the holotape that Finlay brought back, you’re an escaped synth designated M7-97.”

            Danse’s entire world shattered. _But I passed the test-_

Speaking was the hardest thing he’d ever managed. “If that is the case, put me down. You’ll have another Gen-3 synth to study.”

            If he was a machine, he would be loyal until the end. He would make the human choice and sacrifice his life for the Brotherhood to help them in the war against the Institute.

            Arthur’s expression creased with heartbreak. “Danse, you shame me. Even knowing you passed the synth-scanner test, you immediately offer up your life to further the Brotherhood’s cause. Nearly everyone else would have denied it or pleaded for mercy or called me a liar.”

            Danse managed a smile. “All that I am is because of the Brotherhood.”

            The Elder nodded. “I know. I also know that you aren’t a synth. Now that we know what to look for, the Scribes are going through the medical records and the X-Rays to determine who has a synth chip in them.”

            _Then why the hell did you spring that on me like that?_ Danse held himself rigidly, reminding his temper that throttling Arthur Maxson – however tempting it was – happened to be treason of the blackest sort.

            “You passed both tests. But…” Arthur’s expression was bleak. “This is an opportunity I can’t pass up.”

            The young Elder clenched his fists. “I need to feed false information to the Institute. That means I need to act as if this information is real.”

            Danse closed his eyes. Every Brother was called upon by their oath to die at the command of their Elder. “So be it. Would you do something for me?”

            “Of course.” Arthur’s response was instant.

            “Execute Finlay the first chance you get. He’s dishonoured the Brotherhood and the weapon I gave him.”

            “Oh Danse.” Arthur’s voice was soft. “I only wish I was asking for your death. What I need is much harder than that.”

            The Paladin opened his eyes. “Elder?”

            “I need you to flee to Minutemen territory. I need Finlay to believe he’s won this round.”

            Danse knew exactly what Arthur was asking of him. His reputation and his honour would be destroyed. Even if the truth came out in the end, Danse would have lost the respect and family he’d worked so hard for. “Shooting me would do that, Arthur.”

            “Perhaps. But…” Maxson’s shoulders heaved as he sighed. “I have to prepare for all scenarios, including annihilation. The Minutemen are many things, but an army capable of taking on the Institute isn’t one of them. If the Prydwen is destroyed, I need you to take up the fight.”

            “You’re exaggerating the danger-“

            “No. The Institute has Madison Li. She worked on Liberty Prime.” Maxson’s expression was grim.

            “Shit.” Danse allowed the curse to escape his lips.

            “Warn the Minutemen. If you find Finlay, you have my permission to execute him yourself. But until particular operations are concluded, I need the Institute to think I’ve lost my finest soldier and that the attack on Warwick Homestead put the alliance on the rocks.”

            Danse nodded. “Affirmative.”

            “Thank you.” Arthur looked down. “If we come through this…”

            “The Steel is with us.” Danse took a deep breath and cocked his fist. “Arthur?”

            “Yes?” The Elder raised his eyes, only to be punched in the face with all the force Danse could muster.

            Sacrificing his honour had its price and some of it he needed to extract in blood from Arthur for asking this of him.

            Then he was heading to the main deck and going for his power suit. If he was going to sacrifice everything for the greater good, he might as well do it in style.


	11. Exile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism, psychological trauma and grief.

Danse lost his power armour at the Four Leaf Fishpacking Plant after landing in Boston Harbour. His fist still ached from punching the Elder and the litany of curses he’d breathed while running for his life were more vivid than the Atom Cats’ paintjobs. Just because this was necessary didn’t mean the betrayal didn’t burn his soul. Even if they came through this, all of them, his life would never be the same again.

            As he stepped out of the armour, he realised that there was something in his storage compartment – a bag with civilian clothing, a box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes and a holotape with Arthur’s harsh angular handwriting on it. Danse grabbed them, tore off his orange uniform, and donned the white shirt, flannel shirt and denim jeans. The Brotherhood soldier receded into the background to be replaced by the scavenger and junk merchant from Rivet City.

            Heading directly to the Castle would be too obvious. Danse eyed the building. Good scavenging in there with the faint reek of chemicals filtering through the vents. Possible chem lab? With the skills he had now, he was a match for any petty criminal.

            Entering the plant was simple enough and, used to searching for traps, Danse spotted the laser tripwires and jumped over them in a series of short hops. The amount of aluminium on the floor was a scavenger’s dream and – now with a military-issue ammo bag that itself could be recycled for ballistic fibres – he could collect it all. Nuka-Cola Quantum glowed aqua on a shelf and he grabbed that. It was a popular drink in Goodneighbour, apparently, or maybe the Minutemen’s ghouls would appreciate it.

            _Why me, Arthur? Why make me do this?_ Danse understood the necessity but how could Arthur do this to him?

            Like he once did in Rivet City, Danse scoured the plant clean before hauling a skeleton off the mattress and setting the mini-gun aside. Useful, but with no ammo, it was better off as scrap. Screws always sold well and it would give him time to hide out. The power armour had been well hidden, after all.

            He was halfway through dismantling the mini-gun when the door to the plant opened. Danse quietly set down the scrap and went into a crouch, feeling naked and vulnerable without power armour as booted footsteps echoed across the concrete. By the Steel, he hoped it was just a scavenger he could bribe or a raider he could kill. He had no weapons and even a pipe-pistol would be really fucking useful right now-

            “All right, we need Psycho Jet, Buffjet, Jet Fuel…” The gravelly tones belonged to a ghoul. “And for fuck’s sake, don’t adulterate that stuff too much. Hancock threatened to nail my nuts to a wall if someone else died.”

            “Boss,” whined a voice. “Someone’s been through. There’s no aluminium on the ground.”

            By now, Danse had slid off the pipe and was working his way around the outside. Depending on how many there were, he could wipe out the lot, get himself a weapon and do the Commonwealth a favour by removing a chem dealer.

            “Probably the fucking Minutemen,” complained Boss. “That Sparrow’s efficient.”

            Danse silently agreed.

            “I can’t believe they’re friends with the bastards who want to kill us all,” Whiner observed.

            “Haven’t you heard? Garvey’s got Maxson by the short and curlies with those artillery guns,” Boss snickered. “The Brotherhood can’t even get that Paladin who’s really a synth.”

            _How quickly had the rumours spread?_ Either Danse had lost track of time or Arthur was spreading the news like manure on a spring-planted crop of tatos.

            _Both,_ he decided as he saw the thin, scrawny back of Whiner. Triggerman from the looks of it, armed with a pipe-pistol. Not his preferred weapon but it could work out.

            Danse reached out and wrapped an arm around Whiner’s neck, snapping it instantly before lowering his corpse silently to the ground, skin crawling at the proximity of the rads. God but he fucking hated ghouls, even sentient ones.

            The pipe-pistol was in his hand just as Boss realised Whiner hadn’t answered. “Smith?” he asked, turning around.

            “Dead,” Danse answered as he fired two shots into the ghoul’s chest.

            “Marowski,” the sole human blurted out in shock. His ghoul compatriot was quicker on the uptake, hauling his submachine gun around to track Danse. Still not quick enough as the soldier put a bullet in his head.

            By now, the human managed to pick up his 10mm pistol. Filthy and unmodded, Danse was surprised it still worked. If it did. This boy looked barely old enough to shave.

            He paused, seeing a face gaunt with hunger and hopelessness. Still young. Still able to be saved.

            “Marowski’s dead. If you turn around and walk away, you can avoid his fate,” Danse suggested quietly. “If you want to pick up a weapon and shoot things, join the Minutemen. They’re at least doing it for a decent cause.”

            The gun trembled as it pointed at Danse… and then the boy dropped it and ran. Likely joined Marowski for the hope of a better life. Or at least one where he got to eat regularly.

            The scuff of leather on metal at his back made Danse spin around, pipe-pistol at the ready, only to be confronted by a lanky young man little older than the fleeing civilian who held his sniper rifle with the aim of an experienced professional and an outlandishly dressed ghoul with a wicked smirk on his lipless mouth. “Stand down, MacCready,” ordered John Hancock, Mayor of Goodneighbour. “I think we found our errant tin man – and he solved a little problem for us into the bargain.”

            Danse lowered his gun. “What do you want?”

            “Lot of important people want you dead,” Hancock observed, popping a Mentat into his mouth and chewing it. “I’m the kind of ghoul who likes to say ‘fuck you’ to authority figures.”

            “I’d rather not go to Goodneighbour,” Danse said flatly.

            “You don’t have to.” Hancock’s smirk was wicked. “But you’d better do so. Three weeks in Goodneighbour and no one will mistake you for a Brotherhood soldier anymore.”

            “Minutemen patrols will find you within three hours,” MacCready said. “Garvey’s _pissed_ after Maxson accused him of sheltering you.”

            That would be ironic – to be handed back to the people he was supposed to be fleeing from by the people he was supposed to be covertly helping – and Danse snarled a savage Irish curse he remembered Sparrow Killian using.

            “You’ll fit right in,” Hancock snickered. “Irish blood?”

            “Damned if I know. I’m an orphan.” Danse left the corpses and went to retrieve his belongings. He had to play along like he was a desperate synth in need of a safe place.

            “And got screwed over by the only family you ever knew. Yeah, know how that feels.” Hancock was remarkably sympathetic. “Goodneighbour’s of the people, for the people, you feel me?”

            Danse grunted sourly. If he got through this, he was going to punch Arthur so hard in the balls that every generation of Maxson firstborn sons henceforth would feel it.

…

Goodneighbour was precisely the sort of ghoulishly depraved hellhole that Danse feared it was but the inhabitants seemed happy. Hancock set him up in a little alcove that barely fit a mattress and was two inches too short for Danse to stand up in, forcing him to crouch like a mirelurk. “You need food, booze, chems?”

            “I’m fine for the moment.” Danse forced himself to be polite to the ghoul. Hancock was doing him a favour after all.

            “You’re angry, bitter and forced to rely on someone you’d have been ordered to kill two days ago, I know,” Hancock said reasonably. “I’ll leave you alone for a couple days so you can work that out of your system. We’re with the Minutemen now, so Maxson can’t touch you, and once I explain a few things to Garvey he’ll get over it.”

            The ghoul touched his tricorn hat and trotted off. Danse buried his face in his hands and sighed.

            Either Hancock’s protection was greater than Danse thought or the locals took one look at the muscular man scrapping weapons in the alcove and decided there were easier prospects to rip off, so he was left alone. There were communal crafting facilities around, two shops, a flophouse and even a bar according to the comments of two drifters nearby. MacCready passed caps to the female ghoul who sold general wares along with a letter, his long green duster emphasising the narrowness of his shoulders, and a robot declared herself a woman and offered various weapons for sale.

            A week passed, Danse mechanically eating the snack cakes someone had left for him in his armour and trading some of his scrap for food and water with Daisy the ghoul, when Sparrow Killian arrived carrying a pack that was enough to make a Brahmin blanch. The exile thought back to the time he’d seen the naked back of her, rosy-pink with rounded hips and a birthing-soft backside, her chestnut hair wet with the moisture that trickled down the arch of her spine. Now she was tanned and whip-lean, the wiry muscles wrapping around her slender frame, only the relative lack of scars on her skin the only sign of her former Vault-Dweller status.

            She was greeted with good cheer by Daisy and K-LEO, haggling shrewdly with the two shopkeepers, and trading medicines and pre-War irradiated food for folded pieces of paper – shipments of cached goods. With the supply lines that she built across the north and west, Sparrow probably had enough resources to supply a half-dozen Goodneighbours. The Minutemen were lucky to have her and Danse couldn’t understand why Nate spoke of her as if she was a burden.

            “I’m taking over Old Man Stockton’s routes,” Sparrow informed Daisy. “Trashcan Carla’s the new Minutemen Quartermaster.”

            The ghoul raised a non-existent eyebrow. “What happened?”

            “Recent events led me to make some decisions.” Sparrow shrugged slightly. “I parted with Preston on good terms though – I just realised that I was the only one who could step into the old man’s shoes.”

            “Makes sense,” Daisy noted. “Lucas, Cricket and the Doc aren’t particularly flexible.”

            “I noticed.” Her voice was dry. “It will be a few months until everything’s back to the way it was.”

            “You need a Brahmin and a bodyguard,” Daisy drawled. “Maybe you should hire the mopey guy who’s been staring off into space for the past week.”

            _Fuck._ His mission had gone from bad to worse. Maxson had destroyed his reputation for nothing.

            If he got through this, he was going to punch Arthur so hard in the balls that there would be no more generations of Maxsons.

            He huddled down in the alcove and prayed she wouldn’t realise who he was. How everything could go so wrong? Arthur should have just shot him. Or shot Finlay so that Sparrow would be a widow.

            It would make the Man Out of Time laugh to know that his so-proper superior officer dreamed of fucking his wife. Danse would sooner die than admit to Nate, Sparrow or anyone else.

            Of course, she noticed. Sparrow was too sharp to miss him. Did she know that he really wasn’t a synth? She suspected her husband’s betrayal but…

            “I might at that,” she agreed. “He’s had a rough week.”

            _Sparrow, please, just go away. You’re not with the Minutemen anymore._

            Then it occurred to him that she was travelling alone throughout the Commonwealth.

            _Shit._

He crawled out of the alcove and grabbed his belongings.

            If the mission had been shot to hell, he could at least protect her.

            If he got through this, he was going to throttle Nate Finlay with his bare hands and feed the carcass to rabid mongrels before Maxson could get to him.

            She looked up at him with those radstag-doe eyes and wrapped her arms around his waist. Danse had never been fully embraced before, only a quick arm around the shoulders with intent to show approval or solidarity, and he buried his face into her hair as he sobbed like his world had ended.

            It had. All he could do was hope that his sacrifice helped defeat the Institute.


	12. Traitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for death, violence, hostage-taking and fantastic racism. I figure that the Catholic Church would have become a bit more socially liberal and permitted divorce for its members with special dispensations. Also, my NPCs and non-aligned factions are actually competent.

“How’s he holding up, Sparrow?”

            She looked over at Danse, sleeping stretched across two single beds shoved together to accommodate his massive frame, and sighed. “Maxson really did a hatchet job on him, Nick.”

            “I take back my previous comment about the Brotherhood not being the assholes I thought they were.” The synth rubbed his face with his skeletal hand and echoed her sigh. “I understand why but-“

            Someone hammered on the locked door to Valentine’s Detective Agency. In line with the cover story forced upon Danse by Maxson, she’d taken the soldier to shelter with an openly known synth who was dedicated to helping others to let the furore die down enough that Preston could recruit him. The Minutemen understood the necessity but it had definitely cooled the budding friendship between General and Elder, adding fuel to the rumours about the alliance being on the edge of breaking up.

            “Open up, Nicky!” It was Piper Wright, the local reporter. “It’s urgent!”

            Sparrow glanced at the synth, who nodded and went to get the door. With Ellie sent to her family in Goodneighbour to get her out of the way of a potential firefight, the detective was doing everything himself.

            Dark-haired and striking as opposed to delicately beautiful, Piper Wright had green-hazel eyes like Nate and Shaun, but no Finlay had ever been dedicated to the truth the way she was. Her red leather paperboy cap and belted coat were scarred with bullet holes and knife-slashes – Nicky said she got herself in a lot of hot water because she stood up to corruption instead of posting what people wanted to hear. He also noted that the reporter positively _despised_ Nate and might react poorly if she knew Sparrow was his estranged wife.

            “What is it? Is Nat okay?” Nick was already reaching for his trench coat as Danse shifted, grumbling sleepily.

            “Nat’s in the schoolhouse with the other kids under lockdown,” Piper reported. “McDonough just shot Danny Sullivan and has Geneva hostage.”

            _“What?”_ Nick pulled on his trench coat, his yelp of outrage making Danse sit upright and bang his head on the low ceiling of the loft.

            “He’s a synth,” the reporter said with a mixture of triumph and fear. “And so’s Nate.”

            “Oh?” Nick donned his hat.

            “Why else would ‘the Man Out of Time’ vanish in a flash of blue light after Danny surprised them talking about Paladin Danse?”

            “Because he’s working for the Institute,” Sparrow said, stepping into the light. “They use human agents for where synths can’t go.”

            “Piper, meet Sparrow. Sparrow, meet Piper.” Nick’s introduction was terse. “I guess you could call her ‘the Woman Out of Time’.”

            “Sparrow, the Minutemen Quartermaster?” Piper’s eyebrows had risen to her hairline.

            “They found me in Vault 111 where my husband left me on ice,” Sparrow confirmed. “I’m now in the processes of taking over Old Man Stockton’s routes because I was the only one with the contacts to do so.”

            Danse jumped from the loft and landed solidly, knees bracing in classic armoured troop style. Out of his armour, the sheer physicality of his frame was apparent – muscles strained the shoulders and arms of his flannel shirt, his thighs were thick pillars barely contained by the denim that enclosed them, and Hancock reported those large hands had snapped a ghoul’s neck in seconds. “We can save the introductions for later,” he said harshly. “Sparrow, go keep McDonough busy with negotiations. Nick, find me a vantage point – I can snipe the bastard from a distance.”

            “Wow, what did they feed you?” Piper breathed in admiration.

            “P… I’m Danse.” The soldier’s jaw tensed as he bit back his customary introduction. “I might be a-a synth, but I will not hesitate to turn a gun on my own kind if necessary.”

            “You ran away from the Institute. That’s good enough for me.” Piper looked at Sparrow. “I’m guessing you and Nate are no longer married.”

            “By the strictures of my faith, we’re married until death do us part,” Sparrow sighed. “Of course, I was never really a good Catholic and probably would have gotten a dispensation from the local priest. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s one around to grant me a divorce.”

            “Talk to Pastor Clements when this is over,” Nick suggested dryly. “He’s not Catholic but I think Jesus listens to him all the same.”

            “Give me a clear line of sight and a sniper’s rifle and I’ll render the need for a divorce moot,” Danse growled. “Now _move_ it, civilians.”

            “What about me?” Piper asked as Nick left his own office.

            “Alert the guards. If we can take McDonough alive, we can turn him over to the Minutemen.”

            “Done.” Piper smirked and murmured, “The Institute sure know how to build ‘em, don’t they?” to Sparrow and took herself off.

            Danse ran his hands through his hair. “Sparrow-“

            “Here’s my sniper rifle.” Sparrow handed him the modded weapon, watching how his hands curled around it with the easy grip of a killer. “Danse?”

            “Yes?”

            “I know what’s going on. So does Nick and Preston.” The man’s thick eyebrows drew together in a frown and she smiled up at him. “Arthur didn’t want you to be left in the dark.”

            His hands tightened around the rifle. “Even if I survive this, nothing will be the same. My reputation, my honour…”

            “You’ve got a reputation for being a decent man,” Sparrow said softly. “I don’t think that’s going to change any time soon.”

            “The reputation’s a lie.” Danse’s gaze was hollow as he looked down at her. “I watched you in the bathroom at the Castle.”

            “I suspected it was you after a bit,” Sparrow said, rubbing the back of her neck. “You were the first man to look at me as a woman instead of a burden or a means to an end in over two hundred years, Danse. That means more to me than you realise.”

            One of Danse’s hands reached out, almost touching her, before he pulled it back with a twist of shame to his expression. “Go. Keep McDonough talking.”

            She nodded and slipped out. What was between them, had been building since Corvega, was now acknowledged. What it would be depended on the future.

            But she knew one thing – the future that Nate wished to build was one she didn’t want to be a part of.

…

Nate Finlay hated cock-ups like this. M7-62 had been revealed as a synth because of that big-mouthed Piper – who should have been silenced months ago – just as they were ready to get the Beryllium agitator from Mass Fusion. That meant leaving the synth to suffer his fate and get the one thing which would remove the Institute’s dependence on the surface forever. He wanted to leave this shithole to its own devices and descend into the clean world beneath Cambridge, to spend his last days with his son in peace.

            Shaun was the only thing that mattered these days. His son’s implicit blessing for his and Sparrow’s marriage to end had been a relief. Once the Beryllium agitator was in place, Nate would collect the frozen woman and bring her to the Institute, which would end any duty he had to her. He was sure some egghead would fall in love with her while she’d be rapturous over civilised living conditions.

            The new X6-88 waited on the roof of the Mass Fusion HQ, surrounded by the corpses of Brotherhood soldiers. “We are experiencing some resistance, sir,” the sepia-toned Courser announced calmly. “Someone named Proctor Ingram has rigged explosives to the main entrance.”

            “I’ll take care of her. She’s the one thing that keeps the Prydwen afloat.”

            “Understood.” This X6 lacked his predecessor’s dry sense of humour. Shaun assured him that a few personality ticks would develop over time. Nate found himself missing the old one, the one who’d protected Shaun, though.

            The synths let him through – in order to keep up appearances until he reached Ingram, Nate shot the Gen-1s and a few Gen-2s. If only the wars of yesteryear had been fought like this – robot against Commie. No lives ruined or destroyed because of human egos, just robots that were replaceable.

            His mouth quirked to the side thinly. Bless Shaun for persuading him to ruin Danse instead of just killing him. If the Paladin had outrun Maxson’s wrath, he was probably shattered. Being the right hand of a tyrant transformed into a traitor and being hunted by his own soldiers had to suck. Such were the wages of sin, however.

            With the Brotherhood distracted and estranged from the Minutemen, it was time to collect the Beryllium agitator. Allie Filmore smiled tightly behind her hazmat helmet and Nate squeezed her shoulder sympathetically. “Stay with X6,” he commanded. “If things get hot, he’ll get you out.”

            “Thanks, Director.” The poor woman’s voice was thick with relief. “If this didn’t require my technical expertise…”

            “I know.”

            “Shame about Dr Li. This was really her area as part of Advanced Systems.”

            Nate nodded silently as he walked away. A neurotoxin delivered by a needle pushed up through the base of the skull removed a potential traitor to the Institute. Shaun had been startled at Nate’s suggestion of a purge but when Liam Binet was discovered to have helped synths escape… Well.

            But the rest of the faculty believed the rads had gotten to Madison despite the Institute’s best efforts. Only Dr Volkert knew and once apprised of the situation, he approved thoroughly.

            The first of the Brotherhood soldiers were in sight. Nate aimed and fired at the Gen-2s attacking them, raising his hand when he realised it was Knight-Captain Cora, his new commander. “I see I didn’t miss the show,” he said with a smile.

            “Finlay.” The hard-bitten veteran nodded curtly. “You excel at solo work, right?”

            “I do.” Finally, someone in the Brotherhood who got it. Pity she’d have to die. If he’d been given a commander like her, Nate wouldn’t have realised that the Brotherhood was everything wrong with the US military, only cranked up to the max.

            “Get in there and take out the Courser trying to kill Ingram.” Cora returned to firing on the advancing synths as they crowded through the doors. She didn’t notice the frag mine he’d set and left behind.

            As the explosion shredded Team Apollo, Nate looked up at the rad-green sky and sighed. God, but he hated what he was in battle. But war… war never changed and in this, neither could he.

…

“Haylen? It’s a go.”

            The Scribe started as the familiar voice of Deacon, her Railroad handler, interrupted some complex calculations. “How-?” she asked, turning to face the sunglass-wearing man in his dark wig and Brotherhood Initiate’s uniform.

            “Signed up three weeks ago,” he smirked. “Everything’s in place, HL-45. Time to blow this popsicle stand.”

            The usage of her former designation – revealed when Deacon approached her, warning her about the synth-scanners in the settlements and offering her a headpiece to protect herself against it – alarmed Haylen. “I don’t-“

            “We need to leave. _Now._ ” Deacon’s voice was like iron.

            The Scribe looked at Arthur Maxson, turning from his customary pondering of the Boston skyline, and felt her heart harden. She recalled how he threw Danse into the vertibird blades for being a synth – which explained why she liked the man so much.

            “Initiate Deacon, with me,” she ordered. “We’re taking those supplies down to the Cambridge Police Station.”

            Deacon immediately picked up the bundle of Brotherhood weapons she’d been calibrating. “Initiate Tom’s already on the vertibird, ma’am.”

            “Good.” Tinker Tom piloting a vertibird. What could possibly go wrong? And how had he come up here in the first place?

            They walked out, past a stressed-looking Maxson as reports of the Mass Fusion mission came crackling through over the radio. Since he’d thrown Danse out, he’d aged two decades in a week.

            _It’s the least you deserve for turning on your best friend,_ the Scribe thought bitterly, knowing what he’d do to her if he knew she was a runaway synth.

            On the flight deck, Tom was sitting in the vertibird, arguing with one of the Lancers. “Enough!” Haylen snapped. “Initiate Tom, get out of the cockpit. We both know I’m the one cleared to fly this thing.”

            “I just wanted to know what it felt like,” complained the Railroad’s technologist with a sigh as he slid out of the seat.

            “Scribe Haylen?” The Lancer looked confused.

            “Urgent delivery to Cambridge,” she said. “Elder’s orders.”

            The Lancer stepped aside.

            They boarded the vertibird and Haylen switched it on. “Do you know how to fly this thing?” Deacon asked as he took position at the mini-gun.

            “Theoretically.” She didn’t know what was going on, but she had to trust those who saved her the first time. “Which is more than what Tom knows.”

            The locks disengaged and she let the vertibird drop briefly, the blades whirling and drowning out the noise. From here, she could see the firefight going on at Mass Fusion. Whatever was going on, the Railroad had picked the perfect time to do it.

            They were halfway over the harbour when the Prydwen exploded.

            Deacon reached over and patted her shoulder. “Mission accomplished,” he said. “Take us to Mercer Safehouse. We still have the Institute to take care of and I think it’s high time we approached the Minutemen because they have the muscle we don’t.”

            She numbly obeyed, turning the vertibird northwest. Haylen knew that she should feel triumphant, that she could feel safe now… but all she felt was the last of her moral fibre drowning in the blood of innocent Scribes and Squires who were already wondering if synths were so bad when Sturges of the Minutemen was a good person.

            Danse was going to hate her when he found out that she’d given the Railroad the information on the structural integrity of the Prydwen. But he couldn’t hate her any more than she did herself at the moment.


	13. Neighbours and Noodles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism.

_“Minutemen, this is General Garvey. Unless you are assigned to specific patrol or guard duty, get your asses into the Castle. Bring any Brotherhood soldiers you find with you.”_

Preston lowered the radio and rubbed his forehead. The Minutemen at the Castle had brought in all the survivors they could find after seeing three different explosions bring the Prydwen down in flames. It was a well-coordinated attack, the General had to give them that. And somehow, he didn’t think it was the Institute. They would have done something like seize control of Liberty Prime, the biggest weapon in the Brotherhood’s arsenal – if they’d known about it, of course.

            He only knew that it existed, not where it’d been built. All Preston knew was that everyone who knew how to activate it was probably dead and now it fell to the Minutemen to find out who destroyed their allies.

            The order sent out, Preston turned his attention to tending the injured and easing the suffering of the dying. Arthur’s plan to feed false information to the Institute, a plan he’d reluctantly agreed to, had backfired rather spectacularly. Or worked too well if the Railroad was more dangerous than he realised.

            _I just hope Arthur gave Danse the proof he was acting on his orders,_ he thought sombrely, looking towards the lights of Diamond City.

            The radio tuned to the Brotherhood’s military channel crackled. _“-Someone, anyone, answer me!”_ Proctor Ingram begged over the airwaves. _“Please!”_

Preston grabbed the radio. _“Garvey here. We’ve extracted the survivors and are treating them at the Castle.”_

Ingram practically sobbed with relief. She’d been one of those on the Brotherhood side who knew of the tactical game Maxson was running. _“Cambridge is decimated. What the hell happened?”_

 _“Someone blew up the Prydwen. Three explosions at strategic spots on the airship.”_ Preston rested his head against the Castle’s wall and sighed. _“Come here. Whoever did this might attack the Minutemen next and-“_

 _“You’ll need the muscle.”_ Ingram’s voice was weary. _“Mass Fusion was a shit show and that’s all I’ll say on the channel. I’ve called in all remaining vertibirds to Cambridge and we’ll travel to the Castle from there. Ingram out.”_

He put the handset back on the radio and returned to bandaging up the survivors, most of whom were on the ground at the Airport – including the Squires, who’d been moved off the Prydwen at Preston’s suggestion. He could see where the children needed to be in a hot zone like the airship to learn their duties but they didn’t need to be on that big target Maxson called home. That argument had saved their lives and now most of the Squires were helping with the wounded.

            Duke and the Atom Cats were already salvaging the power armour that survived the explosion, helping the few remaining Paladins and Knight-Officers fit it to new power frames.

            An hour later the vertibirds, ten in all, arrived and landed around the Castle. Ingram, battered and bloodied but with something that looked technologically complicated in her arms, jumped off hers with her power frame absorbing the shocks. Her adaptability in the face of losing her legs had impressed Sturges as much as her technological knowhow.

            “Before you say anything, I know it wasn’t you,” the Proctor said, holding up her free hand with a shattered expression. “If I’d thought it was you, Liberty Prime would be paying a visit to the Castle.”

            The Brotherhood soldiers spilled out into the crowded courtyard, relieving their comrades, most of them absolutely heartbroken behind the stoicism. The two military factions had been getting to know each other, becoming friends and even lovers – becoming neighbours. Some of the disagreements could be worked out later so long as everyone respected boundaries.

            Then Nick figured out that, on top of being an asshole, Nate Finlay was also working for the Institute who supposedly killed his son and everything went to hell. Maxson should have shot Nate instead of trying to feed information to the Institute as soon as he realised that the man had framed Danse as a synth.

            “It’s either the Institute or the Railroad,” Preston said quietly. “Seems a bit too low-tech for the Institute though.”

            “They were busy at Mass Fusion trying to get the Beryllium agitator,” Ingram answered. “But the Railroad… Fits their style. Paladin Rhys lived long enough to tell us that the attack on Cambridge was to get a vertibird.”

            “Damn.”

            Ingram nodded with a sigh. “I guess they put in a pre-emptive strike before we could. Kells was handling that operation and…”

            Preston frowned. “So you’re saying that you would have gone up against the Railroad eventually?”

            “The mission was to deal with the Institute and its creations,” Ingram replied bluntly. “Then it altered to ‘destroy the Institute and their creations within Brotherhood-held territory’. I don’t know how else it might have changed, though there was an internal memo to leave synths in the Minutemen the hell alone, even if they crossed over into our territory. Some of the Scribes were even debating on whether cyborgs like Star Paladin Cross were synths or not and how much metal in someone made them not human anymore. It might have been that we would have chosen to leave synths like Sturges and Nick – synths actively serving and aiding humanity – alone. But we’ll never know now because if this _was_ the Railroad, we need to retaliate.”

            “Old Man Stockton was a Railroad agent. They may have taken that as the first attack on them.” Preston’s voice was grim. “Bunker Hill was a fucking mess.”

            “Finlay probably killed him. We didn’t even know he was smuggling synths out of the Commonwealth.” Ingram faced him squarely. “What are you going to do?”

            “We’re still allies,” Preston told her. “But if you’re going to attack Railroad assets in Minutemen territory, you damn well come to me first. Most of those people are probably well-meaning settlers.”

            “That’s… fair enough. I also need to throw Arthur’s plan out the window. There’s only one man capable of becoming Elder.” Ingram’s eyes glittered. “Honestly, I don’t even know why he chose that person. He’s a lousy liar, easy to read once you get past that stoic demeanour…”

            “I don’t know either.” Preston sighed. “What happened at Mass Fusion?”

            Ingram’s face went flat and cold as ice-washed stone in winter. “Finlay revealed himself as the traitor at last. He got the plans for a Beryllium agitator, if not the actual device, so the Institute will still be able to do whatever they were planning to do.”

            The radio crackled again. _“Garvey?”_

It was Sparrow. _“Yeah, I’m here.”_

 _“I wish I could say I had good news but it seems that Mayor McDonough was a synth. That’s why he was so hostile to the ghouls and Piper.”_ Sparrow’s voice was exhausted. _“Danse perforated his head from halfway across Diamond City with a sniper rifle. Even MacCready was impressed.”_

_“Sparrow, honey-“_

_“Nate’s a traitor. I know. And the news about the Prydwen has hit Diamond City.”_ The pre-War survivor sighed. _“Tell me this fucking plan of Maxson’s is done for. Danse is on the verge of snapping and if we lose him, we lose a damn fine man.”_

_“Proctor Ingram says so.”_

_“Then good. Hancock wants in on the Institute raid when we come around to it. Turns out McDonough was his brother.”_

_“Holy shit.”_ Preston shook his head. It explained so much. _“When can you come in?”_

 _“Tomorrow or the day after. Danse was a wreck beforehand and now…”_ Sparrow’s voice said plenty and Preston hung his head in shame. He should never have agreed to it.

            _“Sparrow, be careful. The Brotherhood wants blood.”_ That’s even if they knew where to find the Railroad.

            _“I’ve heard one thing: ‘Follow the Freedom Trail’. It begins at Boston Common and ends at Old North Church.”_ Sparrow sighed again. _“This will be ugly, won’t it?”_

Preston looked over at the expressions of the Brotherhood survivors. _“Yeah, it’s going to be ugly. But it could be argued the Brotherhood started the fight with their plan to wipe out the Railroad and the raid at Bunker Hill.”_

 _“Someone alerted the Railroad to the Brotherhood’s raid. Mayor Kessler was only too happy to give me the details of the deal she made with Maxson, which hadn’t even been shared with the town council. Given that Nate shot Old Man Stockton, I could see him being the one. A three-way war between the factions who consider the Institute the enemy.”_ Sparrow’s tone was opaque. _“My father taught him well.”_

 _“If you see him, give him a shotgun divorce,”_ Ingram suggested, leaning over to speak in the handset.

            _“Is that what they call it in the Commonwealth?”_ Sparrow laughed bitterly. _“I need to get some sleep. Diamond City’s in a shambles and it’s going to take some time to sort things out.”_

The signal died and Preston rubbed the back of his neck. “Ingram, Sparrow has a point. We’re all exhausted here. Don’t do _anything_ until Danse gets here. I’m asking this as the General of the Minutemen.”

            The Proctor nodded reluctantly. “Fine.”

            Preston nodded and looked over the courtyard. If the Railroad was responsible for this in retaliation for Bunker Hill, he wasn’t sure he wanted to live in the Commonwealth with a faction that fought in the shadows with such brutal results. He could understand the attack – and couldn’t resist a bit of a dig about the Brotherhood planning to wipe out the Railroad first – but this was an act as vile as anything in the Great War Sparrow told him about.

            “I wish they’d just come and talked with us first,” he said with a sigh before returning to the injured.

…

“Nan-ni shimasho-ka?”

            “Just say yes,” advised Piper as she sat down next to Sparrow at Power Noodles. “It’s all he understands.”

            Sparrow obeyed and received a large bowl of noodles for forty caps from the Protectron. Too few hours asleep after a long day; her eyes were gritty from exhaustion and more work lay ahead of her. McDonough had died, leaving too many questions unanswered, and Geneva was justifiably shell-shocked from the experience. Danny Sullivan died because no one thought to get a doctor or give him a stimpak, the kids were asking questions their parents couldn’t answer, and everyone was accusing their neighbours of being synths. Thank all that was holy the Brotherhood synth-scanners only required a few circuits, some nuclear material and a steel casing.

            A lot of what was wrong with the Commonwealth was exemplified in Diamond City, the great green jewel that sheltered behind the walls of Fenway Park. It wasn’t the shanty town that sprung up in her favourite baseball stadium or the bright lights that shone from dusk to dawn; it was in the wary eyes and suspicious faces of the residents from Lower Field and the haughty expressions hiding fear of those in the Upper Stands. In them, she saw Nate and herself respectively, the problems of the old world written in the rust and ruin of the new one. The man who’d stolen Shaun lived here for a while with a synth who was bait for Nate. That’s what Nick implied, at least.

            “What’s on your mind, Blue?” Piper asked with an edge to her voice. “Wishing you were somewhere else?”

            “If you’re referring to wishing I was asleep, sure,” Sparrow answered, pinching the bridge of her nose. With the amount of concrete and wood she’d salvaged across the Northwestern Commonwealth, she could make proper paths for the town, get the kids’ feet out of the irradiated mud that gave them sores and gangrene. At least two of the youngsters she saw running around had no shoes.

            Piper busied herself by putting various things into her bowl of noodles: shredded Brahmin meat, some carrots, a little salt and flecks of dried carrot flower. “No comments about the sights or the smells?”

            “I’ve read Nate’s interview,” Sparrow said with a sigh. “If you’re really curious instead of trying to get a reaction out of me you can spin, I was actually thinking about getting some wood and concrete here to pave the streets so no one gets foot-rot again.”

            “Piper, you _know_ she helped build the Minutemen up,” Nick chided as he leaned against the counter, cigarette in hand.

            “I do. Just…” The reporter twisted some noodles onto her chopsticks and ate them with the grace of experience. “You and Nate, you’ve changed the Commonwealth forever.”

            “I know.” Sparrow decided to add some dried tato flakes to her noodles. “I’m just glad that despite the mistakes of my time, humanity survived and is rebuilding. I want to help with that.”

            “Whereas your husband is intent on tearing it down,” Piper observed bitterly. “Me and Nicky helped him try to find Shaun, you know that?”

            “I didn’t. Thank you.” The loss of her son should hurt more. But Sparrow’s grief had run its course and now she felt a distant ache whenever she thought of the innocent child. For the sake of Shaun, Nate had committed unforgivable acts.

            She paused in the middle of adding mirelurk cakes. “Nick,” she said slowly. “We’ve made the assumption that Shaun is dead and wondered why Nate would have joined the Institute when they killed him.”

            The synth pursed his lips. “We have. What are you thinking?”

            “The Institute are ruthless, but what’s the point of using up pre-War DNA when most of it is dead and living is obviously necessary for their purposes?” Sparrow finished adding the seafood to her meal. “What if Nate’s doing what he’s doing because they’ve got Shaun? The real one, not the synth.”

            “Holding the beloved firstborn son of a ruthless black ops soldier hostage? Well, Kellogg _did_ need replacing after Nate was done with him.” Nick blew some smoke from his lips, some more leaking out of the ragged gash in his neck. “It’s certainly one way to ensure compliance. Though-“

            Sparrow looked at the detective. “Though what?”

            “I was the vehicle through which Nate experienced Kellogg’s memories. The ‘old man’ that bastard referred to several times expected _you_ to come after him. They genuinely believed Nate had died from the gut-wound.”

            Piper shifted on her stool, interest piqued. “Oh?”

            “Yeah. Everything was meant to prick at the emotions: hope, nostalgia, a mother’s love.” Nick huffed a wry laugh in his old familiar way. “Maybe they even threw me out instead of scrapping me because I knew _you_ , sweetheart. It’s been at least thirty years after all.”

            “So… what? Sparrow was meant to be the one who woke up and went after Shaun, but it was Nate instead?” Piper sounded both intrigued and sceptical.

            “I think so. I’m not sure if they expected Virgil to escape and give her the molecular relay plans, but the Minutemen or the Railroad could have figured them out – I doubt they expected the Brotherhood of Steel to show up in force.” Nick grimaced; the destruction of the Prydwen cast a very dark shadow over everything. The Brotherhood hadn’t been loved but they’d tried to adapt to the Commonwealth, to work with the Minutemen, for the greater good. “Sparrow, just say theoretically you were lured across the Commonwealth with the hope of finding your son and wound up with the Institute. If Shaun was either in danger or was even calling the shots, because I’ve heard of some top-notch scientific minds going missing over the years and it makes sense they’d be kidnapped or recruited, would you have done as Nate has for him?”

            Sparrow stared into her noodles, the warmth of the broth seeping through the plastic bowl to her fingers. Spring was colder because of the nuclear fallout, the world tilted off its axis a little, and the hand that was broken in the car accident still ached when she acknowledged it.

            “No,” she finally said. “Would I have joined up with the Institute? I… don’t know. They had my son and while Jesus knows I wasn’t the best mother, I would have tried for his sake. But I wouldn’t have cheated and murdered my way across the Commonwealth.”

            “I notice you didn’t say ‘lie’,” Piper said dryly.

            “I was trained as a lawyer. Don’t you know we had our honesty bypasses in last year?” Sparrow found herself smirking at the reporter, who snorted with a shake of the head. “I would have tried to bring their technological marvels to the Wasteland. Hoarding knowledge like that – it pisses me off. I said a few choice things to the Brotherhood about doing the same, let me tell you.”

            Finally, Piper nodded reluctantly. “I can’t fault that answer. Good thing it was the Minutemen who found you, huh?”

            Sparrow thought back to the friends she’d made – Preston, Sturges, Nick and others – and nodded in agreement. “I think it is. I would have been my mother and… she wasn’t a good person.”

            “You know that you’re on the other side of the war to your husband and potentially your son,” Nick pointed out.

            Sparrow looked up from her soup. “Yes, I know. And this world they want – neighbour fearing neighbour, civilians vanishing in the night, the settlements living in a state of fear and paranoia – it’s not the world I want. I lived in one before the bombs fell. I’ll be _damned_ before I see it happen again.”

            Piper was a little taken aback by her vehemence but Nick was nodding with a smile on his lips. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said proudly. “So what are you going to do about it?”

            “When Danse is awake, we’re going to return to the Castle and see what can be done.” Sparrow’s eyes glittered as she began to eat her soup. “Because I have a feeling I know where the Institute is located.”


	14. My Brother, My Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, grief/mourning and fantastic racism.
> 
> …

After Nick told Danse what happened at Mass Fusion and to the Prydwen, the Paladin stared at his large, long-fingered hands for several moments in utter silence. The detective had precious little sympathy for Maxson after the amount of shit the man had pulled in the name of the greater good but he could spare a little for this Brotherhood soldier. If only because he’d helped Sparrow drop the burden of guilt she’d carried since emerging from the Vault and learning what kind of asshole Nate Finlay really was.

            “Sparrow’s gone to ask if the mission you’re on is cancelled,” the synth finally said. “No point in the pretence anymore.”

            “No, there isn’t.” Danse looked at Sparrow’s Pipboy on the side table. “Can I have some time alone? I had a holotape from Arthur and I didn’t get the chance to listen to it before.”

            “Sure. I’ll be just outside.” By a trick of architecture and his own synth-sensitive ears, he’d hear everything if he just took a smoke break on his porch under the tin roof. Sparrow should be nearly done with talking to Preston from Hangman’s Alley, the Minutemen trading post nearest to Diamond City, before she returned to the great green jewel.

            At this time of day, the city looked almost normal despite the events of the day before. McDonough a goddamn synth. No wonder he’d kicked the ghouls out, the ones who might remember where the Institute came from.

            Nick wondered if they realised that the Woman Out of Time might also recall the laboratory’s location. She’d lost her child to the Institute and her husband too in his way – Sparrow, for all her sweetness and good intentions, was a Killian and when that Boston Irish clan went for vengeance, blood and fury followed.

            He sighed and stretched his ears a little, hoping that the holotape wouldn’t shatter Danse’s frail hold on his emotions. The Commonwealth needed the big lug or the Brotherhood would go on a rampage until they found the Railroad.

…

_“Danse, I wanted to say this on the Prydwen before I sent you into the Commonwealth, but there are too many ears who answer to other Elders about.”_

            Arthur’s voice was grave, measured, just as it had been when he demanded Danse shatter his reputation for the good of the Brotherhood. The crackling silence rolled on as the holotape played, broken only by the Elder’s sigh.

            _“The Commonwealth needs us. Preston thinks that having a chapter here in alliance with the Commonwealth Provisional Government is the best compromise between the Minutemen’s desire for unity and the Brotherhood’s current need for autonomy. We need to learn from our mistakes in the NCR and how we lost Maxson because of our arrogance. If an alliance which can lead to the downfall of Caesar’s Legion and the retreat of the NCR from Hoover Dam can be forged between the Mojave chapter and the newly independent New Vegas, then I believe another can be do so here.”_

Another period of silence, Arthur obviously collecting his thoughts as Danse did so now. Vague rumours of Elder McNamara working with a mysterious figure known only as the Courier to the West had filtered through the ranks but with the focus on the upcoming war with the Institute, Danse had put it to one side and left it to his superiors. But – if the Prydwen had been as utterly decimated as rumour painted – he was now the highest-ranking officer amongst the Brotherhood survivors. If there was enough to make a chapter left.

            _“To that end, I am naming you Elder of the Commonwealth Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel. I have to return to the Capital Wasteland when this is over and assume the post of High Elder; by undertaking this mission for us, your willingness to sacrifice your own reputation for the Brotherhood, you have proven yourself capable of putting the needs of the many before those of the one. Being Elder isn’t about ego or bloodline or even skill – it is about_ service _. As Elder, you will have greater luxuries than any other Brother… but the burden you carry will bow even those mighty shoulders of yours unless you learn to let others help you share the load.”_

Danse nearly dropped the Pipboy in shock but the holotape kept on rolling. _“It was only this decision that had Preston and Sparrow agreeing to work with me. If I had the luxury, I would remain here myself, but Brotherhood doctrine needs to be reinterpreted in light of the Gen-3 synths. Flesh is flesh and steel is steel – but Sparrow told me that the pre-War geneticists could take the ovum of a woman, the sperm of a man, and conceive a child in a test tube for those parents who couldn’t do so naturally before implanting it in the mother’s womb to carry. This was, apparently, how she was conceived. I dare not call the Woman Out of Time any less human than myself just because she was created in a test tube and has a synthetic eye, not when her compassion has helped rebuild the Minutemen from almost nothing.”_

Arthur mirthlessly chuckled before committing what the West Coast Elders would call blasphemy. _“The Brotherhood of Steel has always permitted the use of advanced technology in service to humanity. The humanity of Gen-3 synths like Sturges is still up for debate but none can deny that he and the Gen-2 Nick Valentine are dedicated to protecting others. I can work with that. Gen-3s cannot join the Brotherhood, obviously, but in accordance with our alliance with the Minutemen I see nothing in doctrine that forces me to execute those who are actively following what is permitted under the Codex.”_

Danse closed his eyes tight as Arthur’s voice thickened. _“I’m sorry I’m putting you through hell, my Brother, but Elders must be forged in the fires of perdition itself to truly embody the Steel. This will be hard for you – I may lose a friend out of this and that is a price I must pay for the greater good – but know I consider you closer to me than the blood kin I have never known. You are my Brother and my friend always.”_

The holotape clicked off and Danse choked back a sob. He’d always dared to consider Arthur a friend but…

            He’d felt betrayed by Arthur making him do this. Yet this holotape proved that Arthur was asking no more of his soldiers than what he himself had already been through. Danse had always dreamed of being the Sentinel to Arthur’s Elder, nothing more – but the last Maxson, lost now in fire and molten steel, believed he was capable of so much more.

            He let the grief roll through him, hardening his will and his resolve. If Elders were forged in the fires of perdition then Danse could do no less than Arthur Maxson himself.

            The Railroad was a symptom of the disease that was the Institute. They had proven themselves dangerous, certainly, but an attack like that would have taken a good many resources and so they’d need to fall back and regather themselves. Once the Institute was cut out of the Commonwealth in nuclear fire, the Brotherhood could turn its attention to the Railroad.

            The door to Nick’s office opened. “Danse, are you okay?”

            It was Sparrow. Danse opened his eyes to look down at the woman who didn’t chide him after he’d confessed his greatest sin to her. How many nights had passed with him palming himself to the thought of that slender rosy-pink back and birth-rounded hips? Too many to admit.

            “No,” he admitted.

            “If it’s any consolation, the war’s gone hot,” Sparrow finally said. “Nate is confirmed as a traitor by Proctor Ingram.”

            “Ingram survived? Good.” Danse knuckled his burning eyes.

            “The survivors from the Prydwen and Airport are at the Castle. So far as Ingram and Preston are concerned, your mission’s over.” Sparrow folded her arms across her breasts. “The General’s got the Brotherhood to hold its horses until we get there and I told Garvey you’d need a day or two.”

            When Danse opened his mouth to say that it wasn’t necessary, he took a second glance at the pre-War woman. She was exhausted, eyes tearing and red, obviously on the last dregs of her energy. “You need to rest,” he said instead, sliding off the bed.

            “I do,” she admitted with a sigh. “Diamond City’s on lockdown until an election can be held. There’s no one of sufficient authority to take over at the moment because Geneva’s still under sedation and there was no clear succession of power. Piper’s going around and trying to find candidates for Mayor but the Lower Field residents are bitching about the Upper Stands volunteers and the Upper Stands lot are refusing anyone from the ‘mud and rust’ as they call it. Mary, Jesus and Joseph, you’d think the bombs would have done us the favour of wiping out the Boston Brahmins!”

            Danse rubbed his neck in confusion. “I saw a Brahmin pen in the back of the settlement.”

            Sparrow stared at him before laughing sweet and low. “Danse, you are so precious sometimes. The Boston Brahmins were a collection of old families who could trace their ancestry back to the founding of the colony and the years following it. My mother was one; it was how she had so many connections. The Upper Stands families are the last of them – the Codmans, the Latimers and the Cookes. The Pembrokes lost their house in the western stands a generation ago.”

            “So, as always, Diamond City will be useless.” Danse grimaced. He should have expected it, but still… It was a pity they huddled behind their Wall when there were salvageable buildings all around them. And the Upper Stands did nothing for the Lower Field – even the old Brotherhood families had to work their way through the ranks, though their rise was certainly expedited.

            “Perhaps.” Sparrow sighed and knuckled her eyes. “I’m sorry about the Brotherhood – Maxson was a good man who was learning to be a great leader and diplomat.”

            “Thank you.” Danse stepped out of the way so she could use the bed. “If you need me, I’ll… Hell, I don’t know. Modding weapons or something. Until I return to the Castle, I’m useless.”

            She nodded and reached up to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly. “Danse-“

            He shuddered like a bloatfly-stung Brahmin under her touch and she withdrew the hand, a flash of hurt in her eyes. “You need rest,” he told her gently. “Don’t worry about me.”

            Her jaw set stubbornly. “You’ve had two massive emotional blows during the past two weeks and the return to the Castle will bring more. Nick told me you’re the new Elder.”

            Had he? The synth had promised to leave him alone but not eavesdrop apparently. Danse should be angry but instead, he was too busy thinking about what he was going to tell the remnants of the Brotherhood. Ingram and her people wouldn’t be happy he wanted to destroy the Institute before the Railroad.

            “I know. Arthur left me a holotape – I was to be the Elder of the Commonwealth chapter and this mission… was my forging.” Danse closed his eyes against the tears that threatened.

            “I knew he was preparing you for a leadership role. I… didn’t know it would be so hard for you.” Sparrow glanced at the floor. “I’m sorry, Danse. I was expecting you to head straight for the Castle or Bunker Hill, not wind up in Goodneighbour.”

            “It would have been too obvious to head to the Castle.” Why did she feel ashamed? She’d found him before he broke. He would have broken under the mission, he knew that. Arthur’s hopes in him were too high.

            But he was the last officer of the Brotherhood with any command experience – even Ingram had been a grunt. He was all they had.

            He studied her and knew she’d collapse before abandoning what she felt was someone who needed help. “Sparrow, listen to me. You’re exhausted. You need to sleep. Whatever we decide to do next, I’m sure you will play some part in it. But that means you have to go to bed.”

            “I know.” She sighed and hugged herself. “If you need anything…”

            “I’ll talk to Nick or Piper.”

            “Okay.” She sat down on the bed and began to tug off her boots. Danse watched her curl up to the side, back to him, and fall into slumber before he gently tugged up the patchwork quilt Nick kept folded at the foot of the bed.

            Then he left the office in order to mod her sniper rifle and think. For what Finlay had done to her, to the Brotherhood, to the Commonwealth – he would pay.

            He just hoped they hadn’t found Liberty Prime yet.


	15. Elections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism.

“It’s ridiculous, Nicky. We’re on the verge of all-out war with the Institute and our candidates are Myrna, Ann Codman and Takahashi. Diamond City can’t sit on its ass, not when the Minutemen and what’s left of the Brotherhood are about to throw what they have at those bastards.”

            Nick steepled his fingers as Piper, vivid in her frustration, paced around the office. Danse was outside modding the sniper rifle Sparrow gave him; the man obviously thought better when he was working. Sparrow was finally asleep. That left the detective, who didn’t need rest, and the reporter who existed on hubflower tea and adrenaline to plot the future of Diamond City.

            “You and me are out for obvious reasons,” he pointed out. “How’s Geneva?”

            “She’s off sedation but she’s refusing the job. Lower Field and Upper Stands are screaming at each other while the guards won’t open the gates.”

            Nick scratched his rubbery skin just behind the jaw. “Can we appoint an interim administrator?”

            “No. It has to be a full vote.” Piper pulled off her cap, letting dark locks fall loose. “Would you like to hear the candidates’ platforms for election?”

            “Let me guess – synth-free shopping, disdain for all and noodles.” Despite the gravity of the situation, Nick couldn’t resist indulging in some sarcasm.

            “Pretty much. You’d think someone else would stand.”

            “The problem is that the candidate has to be a resident of Diamond City.” Nick’s mouth quirked to the side. “Or I’d volunteer Sparrow. She built the Minutemen’s supply lines from nothing, actually has legal and jurisprudence training, and knows administration and logistics like the back of her hand.”

            He was expecting immediate denial from Piper. She’d taken Nate’s dismissal of Diamond City harder than most because she truly loved the settlement. Throw in Finlay’s behaviour and joining the Institute, and her disdain for the man had grown into true enmity.

            But instead she was nodding thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea, Nicky. I’m cautiously impressed with the Woman Out of Time but… anyone who can talk a synth into releasing his hostage is pretty damn persuasive. I think she’s telling the truth about wanting to stop the Institute.”

            “She is.” Nick smiled slightly. “Tell the Upper Stands families to look in the Big White Book of Names – they’ll find her under Killian-Finlay, Sparrow. Her mother was an Ahern with a Codman mother.”

            “Nicky, you sly dog.” Piper was smiling broadly. “I’ll tell the Lower Field folks about her plan to pave the streets to stop foot-rot in the kids.”

            “Even better. Sparrow would do that too – she’s already got the shipments in her pack, cached at Bunker Hill.” Nick reached for his fedora. “I’m a little surprised you’re on board with this though.”

            “We had a heart-to-heart over noodles, remember? She’s the first person to speak of hope for a long time and actually sound sincere about it.” Piper put her cap back on. “I’ll have a chat to some people, see if they like the idea. You sweet-talk Geneva into handing the keys of an abandoned house to us.”

            “That won’t be too hard. Sparrow could probably pay for it with the shipments in her pack.” Geneva had enough authority to sell the house to Sparrow and she owed the pre-War survivor one.

            Of course – Nick looked up at the sleeping Sparrow – this all depended on her agreeing to run for Mayor. But he could think of no one better to take the reins of Diamond City.

            He left his office, feeling optimistic for the first time in a while.

…

Sparrow woke up to Danse cooking mirelurk omelette on a hotplate. “Didn’t know you could cook,” she observed, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

            The soldier slanted a sideways look at her before glancing away. “I wasn’t always with the Brotherhood and I had to feed myself somehow.”

            He divided the omelette into two, putting a generous serving on a red plastic plate and handing it to her. “It isn’t much but you’ll need your strength. They’re holding the elections tomorrow.”

            “Finally,” she breathed. She supposed that to a walking man-mountain like Danse a half-plate of omelette wouldn’t be much. “And thank you for the eggs. No one’s ever done breakfast in bed for me before.”

            He looked at her askance. “People ate breakfast in bed before the war?”

            “When someone else cooked for them. It was often considered a romantic gesture.” Sparrow began to pick at the yellow-green mass with her fingers until it was in bite-sized chunks. “Codsworth always insisted I get out of bed during the bad times and Nate… didn’t have a romantic bone in his body.”

            “Codsworth – your Mr Handy, right?” Danse sat down on the chair that was now in the loft after switching off the hotplate.

            “Yeah.” Sparrow blew a little on a chunk of egg and cheese to cool it down. “When this is over, I’m going to see if he wants to move here with me.”

            Danse shifted on his seat. “You want to live in Diamond City?”

            “Why not? It’s nice, central and has running power and clean water.” Sparrow popped some of the omelette in her mouth and made a noise of approval. Danse was a decent cook. “More pragmatically, Bunker Hill doesn’t need another caravaner, not with Amelia Stockton coming up from Covenant to take over her dad’s routes, but Diamond City could use a shipment broker.”

            Danse hummed thoughtfully. “You need to buy or rent property here to become a resident.”

            Sparrow thought of the mostly deserted Western Stands. “I was thinking of buying Kellogg’s old place. It’s the least that bastard owes me.”

            “You may wind up being given it – or at least a substantial discount. Geneva owes you one.”

            “I’ll take the discount.” She nodded down to the eggs. “These are really good, Danse.”

            A shy smile flickered across his battle-worn face. “Thank you.”

            She ate some more food. “I assume you’ll be taking the Elder’s position?”

            “I have to. Arthur… would have wanted it. I’m not the one they deserve but I’m the only one with any command experience.” The soldier’s jaw tensed in grief and anger. “We just need to find the bastards.”

            “I think I know where they are.” Sparrow sighed, picking at her meal. “The experimental labs are under the main C.I.T ruins in Cambridge.”

            Danse’s dirt-brown eyes lit up with a joy that was almost unholy and Sparrow shivered a little inwardly. She knew that the Brotherhood was here to destroy the Institute but… “I want a promise from you.”

            He looked at her. “Of course. What is it?”

            “If there’s a means of ordering an evacuation, we use it. The Institute has done us a world of wrong but I suspect it’s a whole little community down there, not unlike the Brotherhood.” Sparrow regarded him with a tilt of her head. “I know Preston won’t agree with killing everyone either.”

            His thick brows drew together and she could see the anger brewing in his eyes. “What if the people who created the synths are amongst those who surrender?”

            “Then we put them on trial and let a jury of their peers decide.” Sparrow met his gaze calmly. “Danse, I lived in a world where people were executed without trial. My father and husband were responsible for many of them. Some of them were innocent, others weren’t, but it wasn’t the point. If you remove a basic right like trial by jury for criminals, you become no better than Nate.”

            “The Brotherhood shoot known traitors on sight,” he finally said.

            “So did the US military. Since I doubt Nate will surrender…” She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “What the Brotherhood does with its own people is its own concern. But civilians and prisoners of war deserve better treatment, if only because I would hope to be treated like that if I wound up on the wrong side of a war.”

            “If Preston agrees, I’ll do it,” the soldier agreed with a sigh.

            “He will,” she warned. She turned her attention back to the omelette. “I assume we’ll be heading out day after tomorrow.”

            “Yes. Piper and Nick are trying to get Diamond City to send at least a token force of security guards to the Castle.” Danse shook his head. “The current Mayoral candidates are that woman who promises synth-free shopping, someone from the Upper Stands and the noodle robot I think is a Chinese spy.”

            “He’s Japanese,” Sparrow informed him dryly. “And, if I remember correctly, he’s literally saying ‘What will you have?’”

            Danse looked sceptical but he dug into his food. “I think they’re trying to find a fourth candidate.”

            “If any of those three get in and turn out to be a disaster, maybe I’ll contest the next one,” Sparrow said with a wry smile.

            “You’d make a good Mayor,” Danse agreed, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He then looked down at his omelette. “I should be at the Castle.”

            “If you’re worried, go to Hangman’s Alley. We’ll need someone to get Hancock and the Neighbourhood Watch anyway.”

            Danse gave Sparrow a startled look and she smiled thinly. “It seems Hancock is the brother of the replaced Mayor. They didn’t get on but… blood is blood, I guess.”

            “I guess it is.” He finished his meal. “I’ll send a message ahead on the Brotherhood’s channel, let them know what’s going on.”

            “That’s a good idea.” It had to be killing him, being locked in Diamond City while his brethren recovered from their decimation. “Danse?”

            “Yes?”

            “I think you’d make a good Elder.”

            Danse smiled, the expression remarkably sweet, and Sparrow felt her heart twist. He was a good man and…

            She stopped the thought. She needed to become a widow before thinking of a future.

…

“Hey Blue, want to settle down in Diamond City?”

            Piper kept the keys to Home Plate tucked in her hand as Sparrow and Danse looked away from each other awkwardly. The romantic tension between those two was almost painful – it would make for a great article once the Institute was dealt with. There was the little detail of the chestnut-haired woman needing to lose the deadbeat husband but, so far as Piper and Nick were concerned, Nate divorced his wife by leaving her to rot in the Vault.

            “I was planning to, yes,” Sparrow replied without missing a beat. The Vault-Dweller was cool as a bottle of Gwinett Stout in a crisis, taking charge of the panicky guards after McDonough had been shot in the head by Danse, then working herself into exhaustion to try and calm the civilians. That alone was enough to make Piper warm up to her a little and even go along with Nicky’s plan.

            “Catch.” Home Plate’s keys sailed through the air and Sparrow caught them. “Nicky said consider it a belated birthday present. Or an early one.”

            “Where is Valentine?” Danse asked, reaching for his flannel shirt. Piper enjoyed the way his muscles moved under the tight white t-shirt – the Brotherhood made for good eye candy, if nothing else.

            “At the bleachers in the greenfield,” she replied. “Sparrow, Nick and I put your name forward as a Mayoral candidate.”

            The way she paused, keys dangling in her hand, was almost funny. “Don’t I need to be a resident for a set amount of time?”

            “Not necessarily. You just need to own or rent a home in Diamond City-“ Piper nodded to the keys. “-And be of good repute. Once we confirmed you were distantly related to the Codmans thanks to the Big White Book of Names, the Latimers and Cookes were keen – if only to annoy Ann – and your idea of paving the Lower Field streets properly won you some fans there.”

            “You did say you’d run in the next election if any of the candidates proved to be a disaster,” Danse noted dryly.

            “Well, yes, but…” The pre-War woman took a deep breath. “Nick, I get. But why you?”

            It was a fair question from Sparrow. “Because you talked someone into releasing a hostage. Because you speak of hope and seem to believe it. And-“ Piper smirked at Danse. “-Because you believe in the rule of law for everyone.”

            “You eavesdropped.” Danse’s voice was flat.

            “I did.” Piper was shameless in admitting it.

            “I… see.” Sparrow looked down at the keys in her hands. “I assume it will be an open, honest vote. If this has been stitched up for me already, I’ll refuse, no matter how badly Diamond City needs a Mayor.”

            _A Mayor I might actually respect. Hell might be freezing over at the moment._ Piper nodded. “You’re just another candidate.”

            “Then I’ll do it.” Sparrow smiled wryly. “Looks like I’ll be busy for the rest of the day canvassing my voting base.”

            “Have fun.” Piper smirked and whipped out her notebook. “We can start with the interview now.”

…

_“Ingram, Diamond City will be out of lockdown at dawn tomorrow.”_

Hearing Danse’s voice was like a miracle sent by the Steel itself. The Proctor shoved the Initiate radio operator aside with barely an apology, grabbing the headset. _“Thank the Steel. What took so long?”_

            _“Mayoral elections after I shot the infiltrator-synth pretending to be McDonough in the head.”_ Danse’s tone was opaque, a rare sign for him. _“They’ll also be sending a complement of twenty security guards with the new Mayor to the Castle.”_

 _“I see.”_ Ingram raked a hand through greasy hair. _“Anyone we know?”_

_“Sparrow. Nick Valentine and the local reporter put her name forward because the other candidates were… questionable. Her nearest rival, Myrna, is the Mayor if Sparrow goes down in the battle against the Institute.”_

Ingram’s eyebrow shot up. _“Elder…?”_

_“The Railroad is a symptom of the cancer that is the Institute. I want a particular traitor dealt with before I deal with the synth-sympathisers.”_

That… made a certain amount of tactical sense. For all they knew, Finlay fed the Railroad the information to bring down the Prydwen so that two enemies would be weakened.

            _“The rank and file won’t be happy about it but you’re right.”_

_“I know and I hate it. I will be coming to the Castle tomorrow. We can talk then. Danse over and out.”_

As the radio died down, Ingram inhaled deeply. The excruciating wait was finally over.

            She looked over to the heavily-bandaged figure lying supine on the camp cot. “Are you sure about this?”

            Blue eyes glittered as Arthur Maxson nodded deliberately. “This is Danse’s chapter now, so it’s his call. Besides, we know where the Railroad are. They can keep.”

            Buff leather creaked as Preston shifted. “We only know where one safehouse is, Maxson, and I’m not condoning a Brotherhood attack on a Minutemen settlement.”

            “I know.” The Elder of the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood sighed. “I’m asking that you take the dark-haired man who wears sunglasses and Scribe Haylen into custody if they arrive at Mercer Safehouse. One killed a lot of my people and the other is a traitor from the looks of it.”

            The General nodded. “They’re yours. _We_ can decide what to do about the rest of the Railroad later.”

            “We…” Arthur breathed the word. “It’s always been ‘them and us’ when it comes to the Brotherhood. Sometimes it has been a strength and other times a weakness. But… I think I like the sound of ‘we’.”

            “As I once told Sparrow, you can never have too many friends in the Commonwealth,” Preston agreed with a smile. “It was her idea to help Danse at Corvega.”

            “And so began the unravelling of the Institute’s web.” Arthur sighed yet again. “We will find them and we will burn them from the earth.”

            Ingram noticed the General tensing. “We’ll accept surrenders, right?”

            “Yes. And station Minutemen at the most likely evacuation points once we know where they’re hiding.” Arthur flashed him a harsh look. “I can’t promise mercy if they fire back.”

            “I don’t expect you to. Those laser pistols might be weaker than your rifles or our muskets but they can still kill people.”

            Ingram nodded in satisfaction. Preston was an idealist by Brotherhood standards but certainly no fool. “How do you feel about your Quartermaster becoming Mayor of Diamond City?”

            “Sparrow never promised to be with us permanently – and honestly, she’ll do better somewhere like the great green jewel, where most of the amenities she knew are.” Preston smiled slightly. “She’s always been a better administrator than a soldier, anyway, and it will be good to have someone in Diamond City who considers us friends.”

            Arthur nodded in agreement. “Indeed. The Commonwealth needs us. And we need friends. The Brotherhood has too many enemies.”

            _The Western Elders are going to have a fit,_ Ingram thought grimly as she raked back her hair and stood up.

            But Arthur was right. The Brotherhood needed to change or it would die. And the Commonwealth might just be the place to do it.


	16. Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism, and mentions of drug addiction, postpartum depression and PTSD.

“I wouldn’t have precisely used the phrase ‘pathetic existences’ but I suppose it gets the point across.”

            Nate smiled wryly at his son as he removed the recorded holotape. “That’s because sometimes you’re too polite for your own good, kiddo. This will get the point across that they have nothing to fear and just how little we care about them.”

            “I suppose so.” Shaun sighed and settled back into his cushioned chair. Nate reflected on the irony that it was the son who was old and dying and the father who remained in the prime of life before setting it aside like he did so many other things. “How did the Directorate take you bringing back only the plans?”

            “Surprisingly well. Allie Filmore has improved on it tenfold and we’re gonna flip the switch later today.”

            “Thank heavens!” Shaun’s voice was raw with relief. “Any word from TC-01?”

            “The Minutemen _did_ find a Mrs. Finlay who’d cracked apart from ice damage after the generators failed again.” Nate sighed, shaking his head. Sparrow was a burden but she didn’t deserve that.

            “Damn.” The curse was rare for Shaun and flavoured with disappointment. “I would have liked to know her. I imagine I’d have been as useless as she was outside of a contained environment, so I can sympathise a little.”

            Nate hadn’t looked at it that way and he flushed a little. “We should have gotten her out before those idiots killed her.”

            “Probably,” Shaun agreed. Then with Finlay pragmatism he set aside the regret. “Are the Minutemen any danger to us?”

            “Even if they’ve taken in the remnants of the Brotherhood, which I could see happening as the rest of the Elders would hunt the Airport survivors down for letting their precious Maxson die, no,” Nate said decisively. “I’ll head up there one or two more times to deal with the Railroad if the Brotherhood leftovers haven’t done it already and broadcast the message. Then we’re done, m’boy.”

            “What about the synths we’ve left up there?”

            “I assume all Coursers will have returned by the time we close the gates but the Gen-3s can stay up there.” Nate shrugged. “We won’t have enough time to pick up everyone anyways.”

            “Understood.” Shaun sighed once more. “I’ll send X6-88 around with recall codes. There’s no point in leaving the Gen-3s to suffer.”

            “Fair enough.” Shaun was Sparrow’s son at times with his odd moments of sentimentality. Probably made him a better man than Nate.

            His son struggled out of his seat and knowing Shaun’s pride, Nate let him do so. He recalled his own struggle getting used to the prosthetic leg which was now part of him. When Shaun was gone, he’d restart the cybernetics programme that enhanced Kellogg. Why should synths have all the benefits of longevity when they were just automatons created for servitude? It would take a few centuries to see Shaun’s dream through to fruition anyway.

            “I see you’ve talked Bioscience into working on synthetic substitutes for meat,” Shaun noted as he put on his lab coat, hands trembling.

            “I love you, I love what you do here, but I’d like a steak that doesn’t come from a giant roach or two-headed cow,” Nate told his son amusedly. “You can do a lot more with plant proteins than paste and tofu, I’m sure.”

            “It never occurred to me,” Shaun admitted. “The idea of eating flesh is…”

            “I understand. That’s why I’m looking at fake chicken, pork, beef and lamb.” Nate touched Shaun’s shoulder sympathetically. “I know I’ve shaken up the Institute, kiddo, but I’m trying to find a middle ground for what I am and what they need me to be versus what they’re comfortable with.”

            “I didn’t mind the fake chicken, actually,” Shaun confessed.

            “It doesn’t _quite_ taste the same but put it with that soy cheese sauce Alana Secord makes and…” Nate patted his stomach in appreciation.

            Shaun threw a surprised look at him. “You’ve got _Alana_ cooking for you? I once asked for some of her cheesecake and she threatened to defenestrate me. I don’t know what that was except it sounds painful.”

            Nate cast a wry glance over the glass windows. “It means to throw you out the window. Killed a Canadian politician like that once, made it look like a suicide, because he was the last voice speaking out against our justified annexation of the damned place.”

            The look Shaun gave him, doe-eyed and sad, reminded Nate uncomfortably of Sparrow for a moment. “If I had the power, I would turn back time and have Coursers kill each of those damn fools,” his son said sincerely. “They made you a murderer.”

            “I was already crime clan security before my recruitment. Old Man Killian just made me better at it.” Nate squeezed his son’s shoulder gently. “Some things are worth killing for, Shaun. You already know this – I know you sent the last X6-88 out to Warwick Homestead to try and divert the Minutemen from attacking me by embroiling them in a war with the Brotherhood.”

            “I wanted them distracted.” Shaun looked guilty. “I wasn’t counting on those Atom Cats.”

            “Doesn’t matter. The Brotherhood probably killed ‘em for their power armour.” Nate shrugged as they left the Director’s quarters. The air smelt like fake lemons and greenery, the world underground pristine – just as he liked it.

            He recalled the day when he came home and found Sparrow huddled in the chair, surrounded by chems, and Codsworth tending to a crying Shaun. That was the moment he realised just how much of a burden his wife was, how little she cared for Shaun, being wrapped up in her own guilt over surviving the experiments. If it wasn’t for the fact that Elisabeth Killian would have had him killed, Nate might have put the woman out of her misery then and there.

            He wouldn’t tell his boy that. Let him think his mother was just too fragile for a cruel world.

            “So you and Alana?” Shaun’s voice was dry.

            “I like her cooking,” Nate chuckled. “And she understands why we have to do this.”

            “Worse reasons for a relationship.” Shaun sighed and clung to the railing as they walked down the ramp. “I always preferred my work to romance. Had a couple flings but they never worked out…”

            “I always knew you were smarter than me,” Nate laughed. “In the Irish crime clans, a man took a wife and took care of her. In return, she bore him kids, kept the house and managed the money wisely.”

            “Ah yes, Irish Catholics.” Shaun’s voice was wry. “Forgive me, I’m a little relieved I wasn’t put through that life.”

            “It wasn’t as bad as you might think so long as both partners pulled their weight. Old Man Killian married above himself with Elisabeth Ahern and they got a spoiled, sheltered daughter for their troubles.” Nate couldn’t help a bit of bitterness. “I could have forgiven a lot from Sparrow – God knows I wasn’t faithful to her when up in the north, but when you’re at war, you need to know you’re alive – but that she neglected you… I couldn’t. I know it wasn’t entirely her fault and Codsworth was doing a good job, but…”

            “Ah.” There was understanding in Shaun’s voice. “I suspect that too much was asked from both of you.”

            “Probably.” Nate had to concede that. “Killian’s death and the subsequent car crash rattled your mother’s head a fair bit while most of our fellow test subjects dying did the rest. Sparrow was always too empathetic for her own good.”

            “I understand.” Shaun’s tones were now sad. “I would have liked to have known her nonetheless.”

            _You’re better off not knowing her,_ Nate thought as they entered Advanced Systems to flip the switch.

            Soon they’d be done with that shithole world above and Nate could spend the last days of his son’s life in peace. He couldn’t wait.

…

The Castle was abuzz with activity as the leaders of the major factions in the Commonwealth sat down at Preston’s eight-seater table – or, in the still-injured Arthur Maxson’s case, were stretched out on a cot besides it. The man was wrapped in bandages, only the roughened patch of skin around his blue eyes visible, and the General was beginning to wonder if it was just flesh burns that scarred the Elder of the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood. It wasn’t his business to ask just yet, not when they were preparing the final plan of attack on the Institute.

            It was strange to see Sparrow in a Vault suit once again, wrapped in strategic bits of boiled Brahmin-hide – for some reason, the Diamond City folks had burst out laughing when she told them where the leather came from – with a Minutemen’s hat shading her fine-boned features. Her twenty security guards were tricked out in heavy combat armour painted with diamonds and armed with heavily modded shotguns and baseball bats while she wore her sniper rifle, now modded to a fare-thee-well, slung across her back.

            Danse had clasped hands with Maxson, mindful of his burns, before pulling on a grey-black officer’s uniform in private. Proctor Ingram was modding his power armour, which had been brought back to the Castle, with the appropriate paint-sigils for an Elder; when the time came, Arthur would be ensconced in an X-01 model painted by the Atom Cats, with whom he got on famously. The Elder of the Capital Brotherhood wouldn’t miss this battle for the world and Garvey didn’t have the heart to say him nay, not when his burns were that severe.

            Duke had been put in charge of the Minutemen’s new power-armoured corps, which consisted of him, Rowdy and a couple Brotherhood soldiers who’d asked to be mustered out. Zeke, Bluejay, Johnny and the newest Atom Cat Janey were marching under their own colours, Roxy left back at Warwick Homestead with June and Wally. The two communities had merged into one settlement and Sturges was talking about heading back home to join them with Duke when this was done.

            Ronnie, as always, was ready. She would be staying behind to guard the Castle and become the new General if Preston fell. He rather thought hell would freeze over before Ronnie Shaw died.

            John Hancock brought twenty Neighbourhood Watch ghouls, the mercenary sniper MacCready and a brawler named Cait. The Mayors of Goodneighbour and Diamond City had a brief amicable chat before turning their attention to the maps.

            Preston supposed there was someone from the Railroad and Institute here in the crowd, but no one who wasn’t known to anyone else amongst the leaders was permitted in the office. It would be the Brotherhood providing the big gun here, having kept it under wraps despite the destruction of the Prydwen, and Danse was strict on the secrecy. Seeing as it was his weapon, Preston agreed.

            “We’d originally planned to have Liberty Prime at the Airport but… it’s hard to miss,” Arthur rasped. “So we took over three manufactories – Corvega, Saugus Ironworks and Arcjet Systems – and worked on each component needed to power it up. I am pleased to announce that it’s ready to roll.”

            “Prime has enough lasers to punch through the C.I.T ruins,” Danse continued, pointing at a place near the old university on the map. “We know they’re underground – both Sparrow and Nick, survivors of the original programme, can confirm that.”

            “Good.” Sturges smiled cheerfully. “I was going over old plans with the crew of the U.S.S. Constitution and it seems there’s an old sewer we can go through. Liberty Prime kicks open the front door and the Brotherhood with the Minutemen power-armour corps draws their attention while the Minutemen irregulars and John Hancock’s people unlock the back door and hit them from behind.”

            Danse and Arthur exchanged glances before nodding. “Agreed. I’ll command the vanguard. Preston?”

            “I’ll pass command of the rearguard to Hancock,” the General said. “The convoy protecting Liberty Prime’s relocation will need someone who’s good at shepherding stubborn things along a dangerous path. That will be my job.”

            “If John can buck MacCready and Preston the Minutemen snipers over to me, I can coordinate them from the top of the University Rotunda with my Diamond City boys,” Sparrow offered. “I’ll line them all along the route from Cambridge Police Station to C.I.T proper.”

            Arthur raised a non-existent eyebrow at her and the Woman Out of Time smiled thinly. “I’m of a mind to give my husband a sniper rifle divorce.”

            “Don’t worry, Maxson, I’ve modded her rifle properly,” Danse assured his fellow Elder. “She’ll be able to hit him.”

            “I was just a little surprised to find Sparrow willing to throw herself into combat,” Arthur rasped. “My apologies, Mayor Killian.”

            “Accepted, Elder Maxson.” The slender woman smiled and leaned over the map.

            Preston went through the plan with them and it sounded good. Once Liberty Prime was ready to go, he’d be lifted by vertibird to its location – probably at Arcjet, the nearest of the manufactories. The Brotherhood told him Liberty Prime could move itself.

            The Institute had pushed the Commonwealth around long enough. It was time for some payback.


	17. This Is War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! This chapter’s a bit different – theme song is 30 Seconds to Mars ‘This Is War’ and so the action will be broken up to match lyrics. Trigger warnings for death, violence, fantastic racism, PTSD and grief/mourning.

_A warning to the people…_

“Liberty Prime… online.”

            It wasn’t every day that Blake Abernathy saw a giant robot detach itself from a gantry at Corvega. But then again, it wasn’t every day he joined the Minutemen convoy that would be escorting this thing to Cambridge with vertibirds flying overhead. Everyone had seen the explosion of the big airship crashing to earth two weeks ago and thought the Institute had won. No, not by a long shot. The Commonwealth was uniting to take down the bastards.

            General Garvey was leading the whole thing, as he’d once led the refugees from Quincy to Concord to Sanctuary. Man was a good one, always willing to help with anything that needed doing. You could never have too many friends in the Commonwealth, especially of Preston’s calibre.

            He took a deep breath and fell into line. Just another man with a pipe pistol, helping to protect the biggest weapon in Commonwealth history. He couldn’t stay home. Not for this. Not when it was time to take his home back from those who’d terrified it for decades.

            _The good…_

Preston had his musket cranked to the maximum as he led the convoy through Lexington. Liberty Prime was terrifying, to say the least, and Danse was quick to assure him that it was the Brotherhood’s weapon of last resort. Seeing the sheer amount of effort it took to get the damn thing going, the General could believe it.

            He was glad the Brotherhood was on their side. Sparrow’s idea all those months ago paid off. It was funny to think how the Man Out of Time had tried to break the Commonwealth apart while his wife was dedicated to bringing people together. There was probably something about pessimism versus optimism in all of that. Or maybe it the fact that the Woman Out of Time was a decent human being.

            As the first wave of synths teleported in to take out the robot, Preston aimed and fired before cranking up his laser musket again. The Minutemen would do their part in protecting the Commonwealth. They always did.

            _…And the evil…_

X6-88 couldn’t believe his eyes. The Minutemen and Brotherhood were working together despite what the new Director believed. Had the smartest men in the Commonwealth been outwitted by a group of surface degenerates?

            He launched all three of his signal grenades, bringing in thirty Gen-1 and Gen-2 synths to swarm Preston Garvey and friends. There was only one place that robot was going – the C.I.T ruins. Had Nick Valentine recalled security protocols or did some ghoul have memories of the place? X6 had the feeling he’d never know.

            The Minutemen in the front row fired two volleys before kneeling to reveal the line of Brotherhood soldiers armed with missile launchers behind them. The rockets were launched, breaking up the charge of synths, and X6 barely dodged the projectiles. When had the surface been united? Everyone knew that after the attempt to make a government where the delegates had killed each other and only the Institute one survived, surfacers were too violent and chaotic to make alliances.

            He launched himself at Preston Garvey, only to be intercepted by someone in the most garish power armour ever created. “I killed you!” the man yelled, punching X6 in the face.

            _…This is war._

If this was war, the Brotherhood could keep it.

            Duke got in the way of the Courser he’d killed and Preston Garvey. “Keep going!” he ordered the General. “That robot’s what matters.”

            Anguish twisted Preston’s face. Last time an Atom Cat took on a Courser, took four of them and one with a Fat Man to kill it. But he kept on marching through the shattered synths. It was a time to be as square as possible for the greater good.

            The Courser was way too fast, ripping into Duke’s power armour and tearing out mods. The Atom Cat kept on punching the synth anyways. Things like this hunted folks like Sturges, who never did anyone wrong. Cats didn’t have time for scum like that.

            Damned thing had gotten to his fusion core when its head exploded. Duke looked up to see the first of Mayor Sparrow’s snipers, a lanky guy named MacCready, and raised a thumbs up. Used to be a Gunner, they said about MacCready, but this time he was on the side of the angels.

            Shame he’d never be able to move power armour. He might almost be a cool Cat.

            Duke turned towards cleaning up the last of the Gen-1 and Gen-2 synths. He couldn’t wait for this war to be over.

            _To the soldier…_

MacCready aimed and fired again after picking off that Courser. It was warfare with zero guilt. The mercenary never claimed to be a good man, only good with a sniper rifle, but even the Brotherhood clowns were right about taking the Institute out permanently.

            Hancock had taken him to Med-Tek to get Duncan’s cure and sent it back to the Capital Wasteland with one of the Brotherhood’s vertibirds. That meant MacCready could enter the battle with a clean conscience and peaceful heart. When this was over, he could return – or maybe get Daisy to bring Duncan here. Worse places and the Minutemen needed more experienced soldiers.

            This was why he’d picked up the sniper’s rifle at Little Lamplight – to protect people. Mungos had sure fu- fudged up the world but some of them weren’t that bad. Look at Jamie the Lone Wanderer, who he and Maxson both knew. Honorary member of Little Lamplight he was.

            Sight. Aim. Fire. Reload. Repeat. War at its cleanest.

            _…The civilian…_

Sparrow had seen violence constantly since being released from the Vault but not at this level.

            It was almost surreal standing on the rotunda and coordinating snipers over the radio, watching the flashes of red and blue light in the full knowledge that people she knew and liked were dying. She could almost pretend it was a game or a television show.

            But that would be falling into the trap of the pre-War masses. It would be losing her humanity.

            Bile churned in her stomach but she remained calm, watching Liberty Prime advance closer. Soon she could hand over command of the operation to Danse and Arthur before joining them. She owed it to Nate and Shaun, if the latter was still alive, to be there when their world ended.

            The fighting grew closer and as synths teleported to protect the Rotunda, she readied her sniper rifle and prayed for deliverance.

            _…The martyr…_

Haylen had left Old North Church several days ago, sickened by her complicity in the deaths of nearly a thousand people, many of whom called her friend. She should have turned herself in or deserted, not betrayed the last of her oaths as a Brotherhood Scribe as a mole.

            The Railroad took care of its own but Haylen really was never one of them.

            She lost her uniform, cut her hair and joined the Minutemen snipers. If the Brotherhood found her, she would be executed, which was the least she deserved. Better to die in battle.

            From a distance, she looked like Sparrow Killian. In the crowd last night Haylen had watched the way she and Danse looked at each other. So she stole a Vault suit and put it on under the duster of a Minutemen. From a distance, she would look like the commander of the snipers. The Institute weren’t stupid. They’d look for the weak links in the chain of command.

            She was a synth. But today, she’d die as a human. As laser fire ripped through her body, she wondered if synths could join the Steel on death.

            _…The victim…_

            Codsworth had insisted on coming along today when he got wind of the operation. It had been simply atrocious the way Master Nate behaved towards Miss Sparrow and so many people. So the Mr Handy decided to do his bit to help out.

            The buzzsaw and flame-thrower attachments worked marvellously, especially with the upgrades Sturges built into him. Assigned to the rearguard with the infiltrators, he was either chopping up synths or tending to the injured. He would have rather been with Miss Sparrow but understood that he’d be of no help with the snipers. At least he could retire to Diamond City with her – every Mayor needed someone to take care of the little things for her, after all.

            Then another Courser appeared and Codsworth barely had enough time to process what was going on before his metal body was torn apart and his subroutines shut down.

            _…The prophet…_

            Hancock cursed as poor Codsworth was turned into scrap. The ghoul owed the Institute a world of pain for his brother – sure, the elder McDonough had been a flaming radroach’s turd, but how much of that was because of the Institute replacing him? John would never know.

            His Neighbourhood Watch ghouls and the Minutemen guerrillas dogpiled the Courser, knives, tire irons and pipe wrenches taking their toll on the synth. Funny how the only synth he’d ever helped wasn’t one. Hopefully a week in Goodneighbour opened Danse’s eyes a little.

            Hancock huffed some Jet and watched time slow to a crawl. Time to end this and break into the Institute.

            _…The liar…_

Deacon hated being played for a fool. He should have figured that Patriot was just a plant by the Institute to make the Railroad the patsies. Destroying the Prydwen might have weakened the Brotherhood but with all the descriptions of a bald man wearing sunglasses going around Minutemen settlements, it had cost the Railroad a lot of goodwill.

            He knew Haylen would throw her life away out of guilt. Martyrdom wasn’t Deacon’s style, so he’d grabbed a new face from Doc Crocker after Diamond City opened up again and joined the Minutemen temporarily. HQ was already being evacuated; no one wanted to be around for when the Brotherhood came kicking down doors. Who would have thought that Nate Finlay’s wife knew about the Freedom Trail? Maybe it was a pre-War pilgrimage or something.

            When this was over, he might head back to the Capital Wasteland, join up with the Railroad there. Or spend the rest of his life reading Proust. Or find another way to make up for the guilt of getting an innocent synth killed because he wanted to save her from the people who’d kill her as a traitor.

            If Deacon was good at anything, it was lying to himself.

            _To the leader…_

“Send them back to hell!”

            It felt good to be in power armour again, standing side by side with his brothers. Danse spared a moment of worry for Sparrow and then put it aside, trusting she could defend herself. She’d survived the Commonwealth after all.

            “Warning: Subterranean Red Chinese compound detected. Obstruction depth: five meters. Composition: sand, gravel, and Communism. Tactical assessment: reach compound to restore democracy.”

            Danse waved his hand to order the soldiers to fall back. It was Liberty Prime’s show now.

            The robot’s eyes blazed before they scythed through the pavement, dirt and steel that shielded the Institute from the world.

            “Ad Victoriam,” Danse whispered as he led the charge into the depths of their enemy’s base.

            _…the pariah…_

“What the fuck?”

            Nate was scrambling synths to deal with the back-door invasion of the Institute when a powerful laser beam cut through the ceiling directly into the area that used to be Bioscience. How many civilians were killed?

            Shaun was bedridden, his cancer too advanced for him to escape. X6 was killed by the snipers, though another Courser reported their commander – some Vault Dweller – dead.

            “I wonder if this is how the Romans felt when the Vandals invaded?” his son observed despairingly. “The knowledge that all their art, culture and science would be destroyed by the hands of barbarians.”

            “Don’t say that, Shaun,” Nate hissed as he reached for Righteous Authority. “If we can break this vanguard, we’ll win.”

            He looked at his son for one last time before leaping out the window. He was done playing nice with the Commonwealth.

            _…the victor…_

Cait snapped another synth’s neck and threw its corpse into another two, tangling the damned things up. It was like fighting the raiders back at the Combat Zone, only they were killer robots intent on replacing humanity with their own kind.

            She’d already decided to join the Brotherhood after this. Minutemen were a bit goody two-shoes, Goodneighbour good for caps but bad for a woman who wanted to be free of chems, and Diamond City too damned posh.

            One of the black-coated synths nearly jumped her until its knee exploded; Cait bashed its head in with interlocked hands and nodded to the Mayor of Diamond City in her blue Vault suit. “You’re a Killian right?” she asked with a grin.

            “Yes,” Sparrow confirmed, reloading her sniper rifle.

            “Me too!” Cait nodded once again and then turned back to the battle she would win.

            _…The messiah…_

Arthur Maxson’s skin itched and burned despite the stimpaks he’d injected into his body since surviving the Prydwen’s explosion in half-armour. His hair was long gone and he knew that his eyes were slowly turning black.

            He was a _fucking_ ghoul. He, the last of the Maxsons.

            The other Elders were going to collectively shit themselves.

            Three synths attacked Hancock and the ghoul Mayor moved with a speed and grace that stunned Maxson, his switchblade working overtime to render them scrap metal. Arthur killed the last one with Final Judgment and found himself looking into those alien black eyes.

            “Worse things than being a ghoul,” Hancock murmured. Of course he’d recognise one of his own kind.

            “Like what?”

            The ghoul jerked his chin at Nate Finlay, who was fighting off attacks from the brawler Cait with a savagery that should have driven the civilian back. But she matched him blow for blow, breaking his nose with a brutal head-butt. “You could be him.”

            That… was one way to put it. And then two sniper’s bullets in rapid succession took out Finlay’s knees.

            Arthur looked up to see Sparrow on one of the balconies, nodding to her. The woman had performed her part of the mission well, though he had to wonder who the decoy was that died.

            The Mayor of Diamond City climbed from the balcony to a tree, making her way down the trunk to the grass. It was unnatural that the grass be the verdant hue of mirelurk blood. Though it was said grass was once that colour. Maxson thought they were exaggerating.

            Finlay cursed, scrabbling back, his face white as the Institute’s too-clean walls. But his knees, both the bone and the metal one, were shattered. The shots were so clean that she must have used the VATS programme in her synthetic eye.

            “Hello, Nate,” Sparrow said with the cold of a northern winter’s wind in her voice. “We need to talk.”

            And the Man Out of Time was surrounded by the leaders of the Commonwealth, all of whom he had betrayed and left to die.

            This was war. And war never changed.


	18. Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, mentions of grief/mourning, misogyny, drug addiction, PTSD, child neglect and postpartum depression. The chapter you’ve all been waiting for, I’m sure. The prayer is an actual Catholic mother's prayer I found on the internet.

“Sparrow.”

            Nate swallowed thickly under the condemnatory gaze of the woman who could no longer considered his wife, unable to reconcile the pampered creature he knew with this lean, tanned Wastelander before him. She was flanked by Garvey in some dusty black jacket and tricorn hat, the ghoul Hancock, that redhead who put up one hell of a fight, a lanky streak of misery in green, the battered features of the synth who called himself Nick Valentine, a _very_ pissed-off Danse in freshly painted power armour and Maxson, whose face was heavily bandaged and his cold blue eyes almost all pupil. None of them were particularly happy to see him and the feeling was mutual.

            “Quite the coalition here,” he observed. “I guess you couldn’t settle for neglecting Shaun as a child. Now you have to come and destroy his life’s work.”

            “Looks like our speculations were right,” Nick said dryly when Maxson and Hancock looked at Sparrow. “Shaun’s running the show.”

            Nate drew himself up as much as he could. “They took Shaun in, Sparrow, saved him from that hellhole aboveground. We were planning to bring you here once our power source was secure. I swear it.”

            “The Commonwealth’s not so bad if you have a few friends by your side,” Sparrow countered softly. “And frankly, the world Shaun and you were trying to build was just like the old one – fear and paranoia with a pretty coat of paint. I lived through that once. Never again.”

            “So that’s it. You spit on your husband and son for the sake of…?” Nate struggled to find the words to articulate the loathing he had for this woman. She was supposed to stand by his side no matter what, to love Shaun unconditionally, not make alliances with the family’s enemies!

            “I genuinely believed Shaun was dead – based on what _you_ told the Brotherhood of Steel – until Mass Fusion,” Sparrow answered grimly. “I only began to speculate that our son might be alive when we were trying to figure out why you’d work for the people who supposedly murdered him.”

            “Leaving your wife in an icebox. That’s _cold_ , Finlay.” Hancock smirked gruesomely at his own joke. Fucking junkie ghoul. He and Sparrow probably shared chems together. “Here’s the thing: a lot of hands were reached out to you and you bit every one of them.”

            “Everyone wanted something from me. Garvey wanted me to save him, Danse _needed_ me to do so.” Nate snorted in contempt. “This world is a shithole, Sparrow, and it looks like you’ve thrown yourself right into it.”

            “Preston and Sturges got me out of the icebox,” she responded. “Taught me how to survive, even knowing I was the wife of the man who’d left them to die. The Brotherhood have been pretty decent to me despite their reservations about you. I’ve been setting up trade routes, supply lines, helping rebuild settlements… You can never have too many friends in the Commonwealth, Nate – or in your case, none at all.”

            Sparrow looked up at the Director’s quarters. “Nick, with me? We need to get that evacuation order going and open Advanced Systems.”

            The synthetic copy of her old family friend nodded. “It will be my pleasure, Mayor Killian.”

            “You stay away from Shaun, you bitch! Do you hear me? You stay away from my son! You’ve killed him! You’ve killed his dream!” Nate screamed himself hoarse trying to provoke whatever sense of conscience she had left.

            “You can consider the shots to the knees my signature on the divorce papers,” she retorted, tone suddenly weary. “I believe you have charges of treason to face. For once, Nate, try to take some fucking responsibility for your actions.”

            And she turned around, heading for the stairs with Nick in tow. Nate watched her leave in utter shock at the revelation of her true colours. She was colder and more ruthless than her parents ever were.

            “If it’s any interest to you, your ex-wife’s in charge of the most powerful settlement in the Commonwealth,” Hancock announced cheerfully.

            “Diamond City? Heh. Not much of a place.” Nate shook his head in disgust. “Just shoot me already, Maxson.”

            “I have a question to ask first,” the Elder rasped. “Did you feed the Railroad the information about the Prydwen’s weaknesses?”

            “No. You didn’t trust me, remember?” Nate laughed roughly.

            “Given that you deliberately gave us false information…” Maxson’s voice was contemptuous. “By the way? We had ways of checking for synths the whole time. Which you would have known if you’d bother to do more than the minimum for the Brotherhood. So once you told us Danse was a synth, we knew you were a traitor. Throwing him out in the cold was our way of drawing the Institute out.”

            “Except it got the Prydwen exploded.” Nate allowed himself a bitter chuckle. “You Brotherhood are just like the army. You take men in, chew them up and spit them out.”

            “It explains why you did it so well then,” Maxson answered coolly. “Danse, he was your sponsored candidate and now you’re the Elder of the Commonwealth chapter. Anything to say?”

            “I’ll take this back.” The big self-righteous prick picked up Righteous Authority and cradled it possessively. “I could have saved us all a lot of grief if I’d just sent you on your way, Finlay.”

            “I should have left you to the feral ghouls.”

            “The Institute would have been destroyed regardless,” Preston said calmly. “The Commonwealth has more resources than you realise.”

            The General turned away. “I’ll be with Sparrow and Nick if you need be. We need to get people out of here.”

            Danse readied Righteous Authority. “As Elder of the Commonwealth Brotherhood of Steel, I sentence you, Nathan Finlay, to death. Do you have anything else to say before the sentence is carried out?”

            He’d always figured he’d die by firing squad and had long prepared his final words. “With all due respect, sir, fuck you and the Giddy-Up Buttercup you rode in on.”

            Danse fired the rifle.

…

Sparrow wiped away the last of her tears before entering the quarters. An old man, the image of Nate but with silver hair, watched them with hatred glittering in his green-hazel eyes. “So the Vandals come to sack the halls of learning,” he breathed in a weak reedy baritone. “Go on then, send all of us to hell.”

            “Shaun.” Sparrow sighed his name. It was one thing to set herself against what the Institute had made her son but quite a different thing to seeing it in the flesh. Pallid, his hands soft and white, the neat-trimmed beard of a professor. Everything she still flinched at in memory of the cybernetics experiments.

            He frowned. “You have the advantage of me.”

            “Nick? Hack the computer. Sound the evacuation protocols. I want as many innocents as possible to escape the coming detonation.” Her friend nodded and headed for the terminal in the corner.

            She looked down at her son. “Your name is Shaun Frances Finlay. You were baptised at St. Brigid’s in Concord. Your father was a black ops soldier with post-traumatic stress disorder and your mother suffered from postpartum depression that she self-medicated with Daytripper and Calmex, both stemming from the C.I.T experimental cybernetics programme where they were two of five survivors. When you were a baby, you had a spaceship mobile and your favourite baby food was roast chicken.”

            Shaun sucked in a sharp breath. “Mother.”

            “Yes. What you have done is… unforgivable. They’re terrified of you aboveground. No matter your intentions, Shaun, you played God. You sent synths to replace innocent people. Your Coursers have murdered dozens of innocents whose only wish was to live free and in peace.”

            Sparrow sighed, blinking back the tears. “And despite that, you are my son, and it is good to know that you will have met the both of us before the end.”

            “If you had just given us a little more time, we wouldn’t have bothered you anymore.” Shaun shifted, sitting up a little more on his pillow. “But you’ve damned humanity, you know that?”

            “Somehow I think we’re going to muddle through for the next few centuries just fine,” Nick observed from the door. “Sparrow, we need a password to start the evacuation.”

            “What’s the point?” Shaun asked disgustedly. “You’re destroying the halls of learning.”

            “But the knowledge lived on in the people of Rome. You’ve lived too far apart for too long. Step into the light with the rest of us.” Sparrow looked down at her son with sad, soft eyes. “The Commonwealth is fighting for its survival, Shaun, not wanting to commit mass murder. Give us the passwords, please.”

            “The Commonwealth is a carcass too stupid to know it’s dead,” Shaun snapped.

            “No. There is love and life and light and hope. The lights of Diamond City blaze each night, Goodneighbour _lives_ like no one else can, Graygarden is the breadbasket of the Minutemen territories and Sanctuary is the hope and proof that humanity can rebuild from the worst disasters.” Sparrow brushed away an errant strand of silver hair from her child’s forehead. “There’s always hope, Shaun. And grace. And salvation.”

            He sighed and murmured a series of complicated letters and numbers. Nick was back at the terminal in a heartbeat.

            Sparrow bowed her head and murmured, “Our Lady of Providence, my Queen and my Mother, to thee I confide the children God has entrusted to me. While they are small, provide for them safety of body, mind and heart. When I shall no longer be with them, when the responsibilities and greater temptations of life shall be theirs, then, O my Lady, pray for my sons and daughters. Continue to be the Mother of Providence. Above all, my Queen, be with my children when the Angel of Death hovers near. I beg thee to take my children into eternity in the arms of thy loving providence so that forever they may praise the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The Pope might be dead, the Church ashes and ruins, but Sparrow was still Catholic. And she would never let her child die without begging Mary Mother of God to intercede for him.

Shaun regarded her with an arched eyebrow. “You sound like you almost love me.”

“I do. I couldn’t take care of you because I could barely take care of myself at the time. But you are my son, Shaun, and I begged my mother for Codsworth so you could be cared for.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. It was always meant to be you – we all thought Kellogg had killed Father. But what matters to me is the parent who was willing to do whatever it took to make my dream come true, not the one who has pulled down the halls of learning and utters a useless prayer to a non-existent deity as if she’s doing me a great favour.”

The evacuation signal blared as Nick’s metal hand closed on her shoulder. “We have to leave,” the synth said softly.

“Yes, you do. There is nothing more to say.” Shaun deliberately turned his head away from Sparrow.

“Goodbye, Shaun.”

Walking away was the hardest thing she’d ever done. When she emerged into the central space, she saw Minutemen guiding people in white uniforms to the nearest exits, several individuals in lab coats under the stern gaze of Brotherhood soldiers as they were marched out. Determining the innocent from the guilty would take many, many months.

But there would be no mass murders. That, at least, wasn’t on her conscience.

Danse met her at the bottom of the stairs. “Sparrow?”

“Let’s go.” When she went to move, a gauntleted hand stopped her, moving gently to rest under her chin and tilt her gaze up to meet the sad dirt-brown gaze of a man who understood the pain she was going through.

“One day, I will tell you about someone named Cutler,” he said just before he let her through. “Until then, if you need to talk, I am here.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “We’d better move.”

She walked past the sprawled headless corpse of her husband and dropped her wedding ring on it. For good or for ill, the last of her old life was about to be destroyed in nuclear fire. Let the last memento of it be lost with it.


	19. All Will Be Well in Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism.

In the end it was Danse who pressed the detonator. Half of Cambridge vanished in blue-white light that transformed into a mushroom cloud. Sparrow didn’t look. She’d been teleported with the twelve security guards who remained to the front of Diamond City. Everyone else was returned to their customary locations but for Garvey, who stayed with Danse and Maxson.

            It was three weeks before everyone caught up again at the Castle. Sturges had been controlling the molecular relay so it came as no surprise that the synths were transported to Minutemen settlements. The Brotherhood fumed but – as per the agreement – there was little which they could do about it. Of the remaining Directorate and senior scientists, the Filmores were spared – even Arthur couldn’t execute an innocent child – on the condition they work for the Minutemen. Justin Ayo was executed and the rest would be under surveillance as impressed Scribes. More mercy than anyone expected, even the Brotherhood themselves.

            Danse sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Fort Strong was being restored as the Brotherhood’s new base in the Commonwealth but there were so many loose ends to tie up. Like the one who stood before him, newly black eyes the only things visible in his bandaged face.

            “Arthur…” He couldn’t execute his friend, his Brother, even if he was a ghoul. “I can’t.”

            “I know.” Arthur sighed, the sound strangely human. “I should take care of it myself. But I guess life has too strong a hold on me, even in this form.”

            “What will you do?”

            Lipless mouth peeled back into a wry smile. “Go into exile. Tell the other Elders that I hid my condition until after the final battle and then fled. Not precisely a lie.”

            Danse’s jaw dropped. “What about the Maxson legacy?”

            “Fuck the Maxson legacy. I was little better than a figurehead and prize breeding stud anyway.” Arthur smirked; easy for him to do, when it would be Danse left with the mess. “Maybe I’ll take up modding power armour for fun and profit.”

            “Asshole.” It was unbecoming of an officer but Danse couldn’t help the insult.

            “I believe that since we’re in the Commonwealth, it’s ‘masshole’,” Arthur said dryly. Then he sighed and looked across the bay to the ruins of the Prydwen, which were being scavenged by the surviving Scribes under Proctor Ingram. “We bit off more than we could chew, didn’t we?”

            “We underestimated our enemies,” Danse admitted. “The Railroad has vanished.”

            “Given that synths are full citizens in the Minutemen settlements and the Brotherhood will annihilate them if they’re ever found, I’m not surprised,” Arthur pointed out. “Haylen died in the battle as Sparrow’s decoy and was buried as a Minuteman, I believe.”

            Danse sighed, blinking to banish the mist in his eyes. Haylen had been a synth – the poor girl. She’d been so sickened by the actions of the Brotherhood – had she been hardened by his example so that when her survival was at stake, she’d worked with the Railroad? Or had she been a plant from the start who grew too close to her targets? He’d likely never know.

            “You’re leaving me with all the mess, Arthur,” he said instead.

            The ghoul looked down momentarily. “I know. I should feel guilty about it… but I don’t.”

            Those newly black eyes returned to Danse’s face. “I should never have carried those burdens, Danse. I was forced, like a flower in one of the Brotherhood’s hothouses.”

            The Elder hung his head, knowing that he was one of those who let Arthur be pushed. “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be. I’d always planned to adopt you as my brother.” Lipless mouth peeled back in a sad smile. “I’m sorry, Danse, for putting you through hell. But you were the only one I could trust.”

            Danse reached out and squeezed the ghoul’s shoulder. “If you want to go, it had better be now. Reinforcements from the Citadel are due in a few hours.”

            Arthur nodded and returned the clasp. Even with the radiation burns, he still looked so much like himself under the bandages it would be devastating if the Brotherhood were forced to execute him. “I’ll see you around, Square Danse.”

            “Goodbye, Max.”

            The last of the Maxsons left the office and with him went an entire era. Danse sighed and reached for his bomber jacket. The real battles had just begun.

…

“The Commonwealth was never as devastated by the Great War as the Capital Wasteland,” Danse was explaining to a heavy-shouldered man with close-cropped grey hair who wore power armour emblazoned with the Elder’s symbol. “The Institute was the only thing keeping them from unity.”

            The Elder grunted sourly. “I see,” he said ungraciously. “How did Maxson die?”

            Danse took a deep breath. “Unbeknownst to us, the radiation from the Prydwen’s crash was turning him into a ghoul, so he chose to stay behind and make certain the fusion charge wasn’t disarmed by a Courser.”

            “Fuck.” The Elder scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t suppose he knocked one of the sisters up?”

            “You know he wasn’t like that.” Danse’s voice was flat with distaste, which told Sparrow plenty about the Elder he was speaking to.

            “I do. The Lyons got the boy killed. He should have-“ The Elder cut off his sentence when he saw Sparrow standing there. “Who the hell are you?”

            “Elder Casdin, this is Sparrow Killian, Mayor and representative of Diamond City to the Commonwealth Provisional Government. Mayor Killian, this is Elder Henry Casdin of the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood of Steel.”

            Sparrow inclined her head with a cool smile, just as her mother had taught her. Becky Fallon had done an excellent job on her black business suit, replacing the pants with a knee-length skirt, and her ivory blouse was expertly mended. “Elders. I’m not interrupting anything, I hope?”

            “Just some internal discussion.” Casdin regarded her with narrowed eyes. “You’d be the Vault Dweller then?”

            “One of them. The other was my late and unlamented husband, who Elder Danse executed for treason,” Sparrow confirmed.

            “Mayor Killian has been forthright about her past,” Danse added with an edge to his voice. “She was as much a victim of Finlay as anyone else.”

            “Your cooperation is appreciated,” Casdin finally said. “You were at the final assault on the Institute?”

            “I was. I’d been there, in a way, at its beginning and it was fitting I should be there at the end.” Sparrow sighed. “I trust my holotapes were of some use?”

            “The Scribes say so. Me? I’m just a soldier.” There was something hard and flat about Casdin’s eyes. “What are your intentions, Woman Out of Time?”

            “Lead Diamond City and rebuild the Commonwealth,” Sparrow informed him. “I assume the Brotherhood of Steel has no problem with the Commonwealth chapter being allied with us.”

            Casdin grunted dourly once more. “Maxson’s intentions for Danse were clear. I don’t like the idea of a Wastelander Elder but – well, Arthur died and there are no more Maxsons. The Brotherhood will have to look for the future.”

            “You worry about the Capital Wasteland and I’ll worry about the Commonwealth,” Danse advised sternly. He was growing into the role of supreme leader, even if he didn’t particularly like it. She was proud of him.

            “We just don’t need another NCR debacle,” Casdin grumbled.

            “So don’t go into other people’s territories and take technology without their permission,” Sparrow suggested sweetly. “We’ve figured out a protocol to allow the Brotherhood to fulfil their duties here without trespassing on CPG sovereignty. You’re welcome to borrow a copy for reference if you’d like, Elder Casdin.”

            “I’ll do that.” The gaze he gave her was stony. “I don’t trust the daughter of an Enclave bitch, so my Scribes will be poring over it. If you screw with the Capital Brotherhood-“

            “I only give a fuck about the Capital Brotherhood in that they might have an effect on the Commonwealth Brotherhood, which will certainly affect Diamond City,” Sparrow interrupted with a sigh. “I’d think that you’d welcome the chance for trade agreements that will surely expand your own territory’s prosperity, Elder Casdin.”

            “The Capital Wasteland does just fine.” Casdin watched her warily. “I have my eye on you. Danse might be soft-hearted but I’m not.”

            “No. You just abandon your oath-sworn Elder when he makes decisions you disagree with, Outcast.” Sparrow smiled sweetly at the man. “There are several immigrants from the Capital Wasteland and the NCR in Diamond City, Elder Casdin. The Brotherhood’s dirty laundry is quite public over there and my people are only too happy to discuss it.”

            “Mayor.” Danse’s voice was flat and Sparrow looked up at the big man. “Your point is made.”

            Casdin’s mouth was tight. “Listen to me-“

            “Enough, Casdin.” Danse stepped between Sparrow and his fellow Elder. “The Brotherhood is used to dealing with disunited regions and managed to get into a war with the NCR. If it wasn’t for McNamara and the Courier, the Brotherhood of the West would no longer exist. You heard Arthur’s last message; you know the last Maxson wanted us to work with the people of the Wasteland and how an alliance with the CPG is our best hope in the Commonwealth. I don’t tell you how to run the Capital Brotherhood, so don’t try and antagonise allies in _my_ territory.”

            The Capital Elder scowled at Danse. “It isn’t wise to make an enemy of another Elder, Danse.”

            The big man regarded Casdin grimly. “The same goes for you, Casdin.”

            The older man drew himself up. “I’m watching you. Both of you.”

            He stalked off to join his fellow Capital Brothers, who’d be treated to a twenty-one gun farewell as Preston demonstrated the artillery on their way. The Minutemen were less than impressed with Danse’s friends from Washington and wanted to make sure they knew that the Commonwealth wasn’t a good enemy to have.

            “If you tell me I shouldn’t have provoked him, Danse…”

            The Commonwealth Elder regarded Sparrow wryly. “A lot of Casdin’s power-broking died with Arthur. Yes, he’s Elder, but it’s going to be a while before we have a High Elder.”

            Sparrow personally thought that a disunited Brotherhood was best for the Commonwealth but out of respect for Danse, she was going to keep that opinion to herself. He was a good man who still believed in their mission, which she herself agreed with to a certain extent. It was just Casdin and his ilk reminded her of the worst parts of the pre-War military.

            “My mother was a lot of things,” Sparrow mused as she watched the Capital Brotherhood soldiers. “Maybe even ‘Enclave bitch’ was one of them. But she genuinely believed that she was doing the right thing by America.”

            “It’s easy to justify anything for a cause,” Danse agreed with a sigh. “He took Arthur turning into a ghoul before his death far too well though.”

            “Can he cause trouble?”

            “Not on his own. If he can convince the other Elders – McNamara, Rothchild, the ones at Lost Hills and in the Midwest – that I’m violating the doctrine-“

            “So, you’re the one with the long-range transmitter. Tell them your side first.” Sparrow looked up at Danse. “McNamara made an alliance with an outside power. That should get him on your side.”

            “And Rothchild helped raise Arthur.” Danse looked thoughtful and a little sickened at the same time. “God, I hate this manipulation of truth…”

            “So long as you hate it, you won’t fall into the same traps as the pre-War military,” she assured him gently. “Men like Casdin forged men like Nate.”

            That got through to him as nothing else would have. His jaw set firmly, dirt-brown eyes grim, Danse nodded decisively. “You’re right as always.”

            “Not always.” Sparrow shook her head. “Did Preston tell you how I nearly started a war with Bunker Hill?”

            “He said something about Kessler having her head up her ass,” Danse observed.

            “No, the mistake was mine,” Sparrow corrected wryly. “It all began when I sold Cricket shipments of circuitry and steel… and ended with that bald guy with the sunglasses who told me about Casdin running bare-assed out of Bunker Hill with Kessler on his heels claiming he’d promised to marry Amelia Stockton.”

            Danse threw his head back and roared with laughter. The sound drew several people’s attention and a grin from Preston, who’d had to talk Kessler into _not_ barring Diamond City merchants from Bunker Hill. The CPG was in a bit of a mess at the moment but things were already better for the Commonwealth from a few months ago and there was already talks of an election for representatives to the Senate within a year or so.

            Sparrow shared the self-deprecating grin with her first friend in the Commonwealth and began to believe that she might be on the first steps to a better world. There was a man laughing she found attractive next to her, a friend across the room, and an entire region that was slowly unifying. Life wasn’t perfect in this world of rust and ruin but it could get better. She would get better in time.

            All would be well in time, even for the Woman Out of Time.


End file.
